


Doomed From The Start

by erintoknow



Series: Aria [28]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drug Addiction, Emetophobia, F/F, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Love Triangles, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Needles, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 52,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: All you ever wanted was chance to live your own life. To become your own person.That feels like a dream now. Or maybe a nightmare.Your dearest friends betrayed you, the entire world is against you. You'll never be part of it. You see that now. Well. If you're going down. You aren't going down alone. The world is going to burn with you.
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Series: Aria [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399939
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	1. DOOMED FROM THE START

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lost my mind and taken what I've been doing since May to it's logical conclusion.  
> I've tried to tag chapters appropriately but don't be shy letting me know if I missed something (pre-emptive apology for that)
> 
> Some of these chapters are revisions of previously published fics. I'll try to link to the original in the author's notes for reference. I hate losing everyone's wonderful comments, but such is the nature of the beast.
> 
> thank you very, very much to my friends [Swan](https://ratkingkisses.tumblr.com), [Riley](https://queenofthieves.tumblr.com), and [Angelwires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelwire/profile) for beta reading

* * *

All you ever wanted was chance to live your own life.

To become your own person.

  
That feels like a dream now. Or maybe a nightmare.

  
Your dearest friends betrayed you, the entire world is against you. You'll never be part of it. You see that now. Well. If you're going down. You aren't going down alone. The world is going to burn with you.

[ **Youtube Playlist** ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1zGCXjZDs9pkG08lHyG_cBzY23eVb4R0)

[ **Spotify Playlist** ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3iiz3xk619gU68pFI0TPfj?si=w02Of_CQTlOx3bzXy1AhGg)

Content warning for: Self-harm, Suicide, Emetophobia, needles, PTSD

* * *


	2. you dream in continuity of different mistakes

beige, off-white, stained yellow. why? why can’t you be brighter? 

##  you dream in a continuity of different mistakes

a city you haven’t been to yet, steel laced in vines, add liberally trees and identical buildings for filler. late again, the schedule doesn’t make chronological sense: always the right place at the wrong time or the wrong time at the right place but today you’ve made the two axises align and here you are the right place at the right time and the courtyard is filled with old-school ghosts. less physically present than textually informed and are they the ghosts or are you the one stepping back into dead lives? a woman you remember too clearly for no interaction asks “how are you?” and steps off the bridge that is now a classroom.

no one recognizes you: this stranger body borrowing someone else’s haunting.

you’re not awake. you can’t be, because you’re here.

this is a dream, you promise yourself every time

you wake up to cinderblocks and sodium lamps

proof that when marooned, you bring the water with you

“i am dreaming now” is a queer prayer

‘theseus will come back for me,’

is a queerer one.

in flattening every note left

you expose yourself

without your bone chimes hung up

to ward off the master

come to collect her due

always too polite to drip blood and breath

into an appropriate receptacle

cement kisses

tear against your dermis

a molding that is, like yourself:

sung entirely in artifice

days of dust and scraping

under fingers, raising hairs

it starts with you brushing your teeth, and something moves in your mouth that shouldn’t. did you get punched in the mouth today? you can’t remember. it doesn’t matter, the mirror’s enough of a punch. too-pale skin, sick, never seeing the california sun. why california? a criss-cross of bright orange lines run over your chest, down your arms. in between the breasts you don’t have here –which you never had so why are you thinking it– everything runs into a morse-code of lines. they’ve saran-wrapped you like a piece of meat, pricing available for easy-scanning.

today’s sale: $6.99 lb. ‘what a steal,’ the butcher would promise you as she carves into your side.

raking plastic across enamel

defoliates your gums:

a sponge you can’t squeeze clean

blood mixes with toothpaste and no one

taught you not to swallow fluoride

in non-lethal doses.

inspecting the reflection of your teeth is simple enough.

it’s important for every tool, 

practice proper self-maintenance.

and you are nothing if not a good tool, aren’t you, sea bee?

she asks you, minotaur hand gripping your shoulder tight, too tight, biting bone.

there in the back, you’ve loosened a molar,

push it more, with your tongue.

It doesn’t take much,

it rises out on a pooling of blood,

running between your gums,

and over your lips,

down your chin.

reddening foam

spilling out of yourself, helpless to stop

or never taught? or never willing?

puzzling out in trial and error

in the smudges of the mirror,

a child still in daily prayer

that something is terribly wrong

you are a fountain

red water like wine stains

orange in your skin

still glows

as the blood rises over your head.

you: a diver at the bottom of the ocean

lungs choking on your own blood-water

only her dye marks the difference

between the salt in here

and the salt out there

each morning, there’s a woman in the mirror, singing impossible promises: that you haven't been forgotten, that there are people who love you, beyond the labyrinth. if only you can find the path. one last memory cast in amber and frozen in the green glare of gun flash and shattered glass. 

every day she's harder to hear under all that blood coming out of her mouth.

and you?

you’ve been bad.

a bad boy, rub your face in it;

you’ll never learn

never learn

no privileges this time around, trust is earned not given

and how could you, really? breaking her trust like that

she, who gave everything to you

and asked so little in return

the minotaur loved you like she loves a good gun

her ownership engraved by heat and metal

how could you betray that?

traitor to your heart, the one she owns

but it’s not her hand that strikes you

it’s your own

because you’ve brought this on yourself

a tool that breaks must be repaired

by hammer, by chisel,

surgeon’s saw, and doctor’s thread

the men in the white coats watch through opaque glass

masked faces for masked minds

if you don’t like being debugged, one states, unmoving

then don’t bug out

seriously, why can’t you appreciate

how blessed you are? so unique

-ly privileged, honored and set above

all your brothers and sisters.

an unlucky skin you can never escape, no hardened bones, no breath of fire. no heightened strength, or superior agility, only the joy of knowing just how little everyone thinks of you and their utter disdain for what you’ve done to your borrowed body, their handiwork. and that’s when they don’t fill your head with numbing chemicals or worse, that droning buzz that always threatens to split you open but never makes good on the promise.

you understand, don’t you?

it hurts her to see you this way

a hurt more real

more meaningful

then any fleeting mark across your face

it’s only in the light of night, while you’re waiting to wake up

you can dream of anywhere else, or of getting back

a dozen little promises you trace into the lines of your skin:

no one’s coming for you, not in ships of iron, nor clad in night. the woman in the mirror is translucent; nothing left to bleed. only the memory of paper skin to remind you. theseus isn’t coming, you can see it in stolen photographs. her midnight braid no longer bound by your tarnished silver, hands entwined with some newer, better, prince.

there may be no theseus, but the way out remains

ariadne, darling, loan the red thread in your arm

bind it to your wrists and trace the walls

let it guide you through light

to dark, past the beast

and it’s heart, hers, beating in your chest

the one that you’ll vomit up and shove down her throat with

every look, every sneer, 

every backhanded compliment, 

every call to sympathy, 

every verbal lashing, 

every strike of the hand, 

every unwanted, probing touch, 

every test and examination, 

every smug 'good boy,’

drain out her everything

wring out every memory

on to sun-parched ground

and let the sand hollow her out.

you’re going to fucking kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [you dream in continuity of different mistakes] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301566)


	3. you regret things that haven’t happened yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Los Diablos, Ariadne Becker. It’s 2018, five years after you plunged out of a window and woke up in hell. Now that you're free, you finally have a chance to make them pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[1940]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IS_kaU8teSs)

#  Never come up again

##  you regret things that haven’t happened yet

“–marks the 20th anniversary since President J. M. Walker formally signed the Marshal act into law, establishing the Rangers initiative across California and the Free Economic Zone–”

You tune out the radio as you step off the bus into the throng of people. The smog of the city hits you immediately, an unpleasant acrid feeling in your lungs interlaced with a strange nostalgia. Buzzing minds swirling around you in a way they haven’t in five years. A cacophony of thoughts threatening to suffocate your own. Biting your lip, you hum a few bars of an old favorite. Something you learned by heart in a long-past life. Running the tune through your head you push back against the noise, reclaim some small place for yourself. It’s a risk to come back, hiding in the audacity of returning.

No one pays you any mind as you pick your way through the crowd, another tired, nondescript figure in a hoodie, hiking backpack slung over one shoulder. Hood up to hide your hair. You shift the weight on your shoulder, push your sunglasses tight against your eyes as you step out of the shade of the central bus terminal.

Did you really consider this city home once? It’s hard to believe. Somehow in your daydreams it seemed so much cleaner, awe-inspiring. It doesn’t matter. You aren’t here out of sentimentality. Los Diablos is the only home you’ve ever known, and five years can’t change the layout of the streets by much.

It’s muscle memory to trace a path through the neighborhoods you once knew by heart. Inglewood, Hawthorne, Willowbrook… Things are more built up now then you remember, but you’ve always been good at finding your way. Good to know your years away haven’t dulled your senses in that regard. In the long run you’ll want to avoid anywhere you used to favor. By the end of Ariadne’s stint in the city, she had gotten awfully lax about who saw her unmasked. A mistake, and not one that bears repeating. You can’t risk being recognized.

In the immediate moment however, memory takes you through the streets to the door of a mom’n pop pharmacy. A holdout that had survived the fall of Los Angeles, and what had been Ariadne’s preferred supplier thanks to their refusal to enter the 21st century and keep digital records.

Jasmine incense fills yours lungs as you step inside. The memory of too many weekly visits, spanning years, suddenly bearing down on you at once. It’s like no time has passed at all. All the shelves are exactly where you remember. Only a few of the product packages have changed, a discrepancy that saves you, pulls you back to the present. The pharmacist at the counter is different too. Another mercy.

“Hi, welcome, how can I help?” A blond haired woman with streaks of green smiles up at you.

You return the smile, puppeteering your own skin. Put an arm on the counter as you lean against it, casual. “Hi, I–I’m here to, uh, to get a prescription filled. First time.”

“First time coming to us? That’s wonderful.” Her thoughts light up, she’s done this so many times she’s almost tricked herself into believing it. “Do you have the prescription slip on you?”

“Y–yeah, hold on…” You swing your backpack off your shoulder, unzipping the top wide enough to stick your hand in to shuffle around. “Just got to d–d–dig around and find it…” You move your hand, stirring the pile of stolen clothes and drugs. “It’s in here somewhere, I–I–I swear…” You close one eye, sticking out your tongue as you keep digging.

The pharmacist sighs. “Do you remember what it was?”

You stop digging, let a warm smile creep onto your face. Got her. “Y–yeah, is that okay?”

“Just remember for next time, okay, sweetie?”

“Y–yeah… yeah, of course, th–thank you!” You relax, a smile broadening across your face. As you rattle off the details of your prescription – still remember it by heart, even after five years – you take your hand out of your backpack, drum your fingers against the canvas. Keep your cool. Stay focused. You need these pills. Don’t fuck this up, four-two.

“We should have everything on hand, it’ll just take a few minutes if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Th–thanks so much.” You resist the urge to bow as you step back from the counter. The pharmacist turns away from you and you’ve time to let your eyes wander again. A row of a magazines sit neatly between cash registers in front of the counter.

Time Magazine is running an exposé on the history of the Marshal program and the Ranger teams that dot the west coast. In comparison; Wired’s cover makes your lip curl in reflexive disgust, a glamour shot of the CEO of Genitech.

More locally, a stack of newspapers. The Los Angeles Times still stubbornly refusing to change their name. It’s enough to make you roll your eyes. Even the mayor is calling the city Los Diablos. That fight is long lost. The centerpiece article catches your eye however; speculative tripe about a budding relationship between two of the Rangers. There had been no shortage of suffering that tabloid nonsense back in the day. Funny how it had worked out; the movie stars left just in time for the super heroes to pick up the celebrity gossip slack.

And by ‘funny’ more like, utterly humiliating. Ariadne had pretty quickly learned to ignore it all. What was that other vigilante they kept trying to justify pairing you off with? Don’t even remember his name, face… nothing. Did he even exist? Maybe you made him up.

Certainly spent more than your fair share of time wishing you could be anywhere else.

You pick the paper up despite yourself, skimming through the article. Ex-Marshal (Ex-Marshal?) Charge was caught on camera eating out with fellow Ranger, Lady Argent. The mysterious silver-skinned woman who had joined the Rangers last year having moved from San Francisco. It’s pathetic really, the straw people will grasp at. Two people eating together does hardly a relationship make. Hell, if it _had_ , then you and Charge should have practically counted as married.

And you know all too well how that one worked out for you.

Below the fold, nestled between more practical matters of city operation is an exposé on some ‘up-and-coming’ corporate hero named Herald. Herald of what? Great savings on your toothpaste? Can’t say you ever cared for corporate heroes, even back in the day.

“Sorry for the wait,” A forcefully bright voice cuts into your thoughts. Dropping the newspaper back into the rack, you look up into the sunny face of the pharmacist. She places a brown paper page, stapled shut, on the counter.

You step forward with a smile. “It’s no, um, t–trouble at all, thank–thank you so much.” You take the bag from her and shove it in your backpack, zipping it shut and re-shouldering it. “Have a n–nice day miss.”

“You too, honey!” She smiles at you as you make for the exit. You’ll be long gone before she realizes she ‘forgot’ to charge you. Idiot. Were people’s minds always this easy to manipulate? Why did you have such a hard time making ends meet that first time around?

You don’t stop walking until you come to a set of benches outside a complex of office buildings. Coin operated, the kind where you stick a quarter in the box to make the spikes retract. You roll your eyes at that. Really now?

No one notices for the minute it takes you to break the mechanism, retracting the spikes so you can sit down. The heat of the city is starting to get to you, but you don’t dare so much as pull your hood down.

You got used to it once before, you’ll get used to it again. And at any rate, you won’t have to put up with it for overlong. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll be done with Los Diablos for good in a few years.

But first the small fry. Work your way up. Crawl before you walk. Scream before you sing. And so-on and so-forth. Every plan has to start somewhere. So why not here?

You get the bag out of your backpack, ripping out the staple to retrieve the pair of green bottles. The Spiro goes down easier with water, but you don’t have the patience for that right now so, so: an awkward and painful dry swallow it is. A coughing fit later it’s the tablet of Estradiol next.

You screw the cap closed and lean back on the bench. Closing your eyes as you let the tablet dissolve. Five years since you’ve had the right hormones in your stupid garbage body. It’ll be a while yet before you can start to feel like yourself again. You’ve got more than a few drug habits to kick. Yet Again.

The Directive tried to take everything you were away. They took your friends, your belongings, your life.

And you, you know, you get it now. You’ve been fooling yourself. You’ll never be one of them, never be ‘normal.’ It doesn’t matter how good you behave. They hadn’t even cared about ‘Sidestep’ in the end.

It was all just fuel for more tests to measure your ‘aberrant’ behavior. Well, you’re done with tests, with holding cells, and medical gurneys, doctors and scientists and bronze-skinned heroes with beautiful smiles who make empty vows of friendship before dropping you in the pit of your worst nightmares.

And so you’re going to make them pay. You’re going to drag every last one of them, kicking and screaming, through the mud until they die of exposure. But it won’t be enough to simply burn down a few buildings, kill a few dozen people. They’ll deserve it, of course. All of them. Complicit. But it’s not enough.

You’ve got to pull out the whole poisonous plant, root and stem. No matter how this all ends, when your fire burns out, you won’t be burning alone.

Not this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[they vanish with the sunlight spark]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475969)


	4. your careless self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may have escaped and made it back to Los Diablos after five years of hell, but now you're on your own and can't trust anyone.
> 
> That's fine, you'll make someone you can trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts, needles
> 
> [[Blue Bottle Blues]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEaJU6lLFNM)

##  your careless self

The bed deforms around Jane as she sits down and looks at your comatose body. Sickly pale skin, so pale it comes around to being able to make out the freckles on your face again. Red hair in an unkempt frizzy mess only just starting to reach your ears. It’s unsettling how alike Jane is to you.

Finding her in that hospital ward a few months ago had felt like an unbelievable stroke of good luck. After weeks of scouting out your options you had been ready to grab just about any suitable comatose body you could find. And here was Jane, her body so like your own but better. Younger, prettier, cisgender, and fine, bigger boobs, you admit it.

Wearing her body is a high better than any drug you’ve tried.

A month into your return to Los Diablos and you had spent most of it skulking around hospitals looking for an empty body just like Jane’s. Comatose and without any consciousness of her own, no identification, no family. A for-profit hospital, so chances were high they only held on to her at all so they could sell her for parts. Another Jane Doe chewed up and about to be digested by the shithole that was Los Diablos. The fucking ghouls.

Stepping into Jane’s empty body had been painful that first time, and you hadn’t been entirely sure it would work. But your first gasp in her body, feeling every muscle spasm and on fire was everything you could have hoped for.

It had taken some work to get her discharged. Some liberal and forceful mental suggestions across an uncomfortable number of people. A few of the damn doctors may have suffered some… truly unfortunate accidents, prematurely ending their careers. Not that you’d know anything about that, of course.

But you’d managed. Got her set up in an apartment you rented below your own. And then it had been more months of painful physical therapy, following programs out of library books and internet guides to get the Jane Doe back into working order.

Look at you now.

No –

Look at _her_ now.

Jane gets up from the bed, walks over to the wardrobe, third drawer, pull all the way back, behind the jeans. Remove the false back, pull out the box, put it on top. Open it up to find the bottle and needles.

Really, Jane should be grateful you found her. Actually, you think for Jane so; Thank you CB-0742, for saving ‘my’ life. Why, you’re welcome Jane Doe, happy to help out.

You can’t give her her mind back, but you can loan yours. Keep her taken care of. Give her something resembling a life. Soon you’ll have to start poking around, make connections with whatever counted as the criminal scene these days, and Jane could be your face for that. Someone no one will recognize.

But first–

Your first time out, you had someone to help wean you off the tetradoxin. That had been a stupid, desperate move. Back then you didn’t even understand what you were on: A low-dose telepathy suppressant, laced with some kind of opiate derivative to make it addictive. Keep you from getting any big ideas about independence.

You’ve been able to stave off the worst of withdrawal by stealing from drug dealers. Honestly, part of you doesn’t even want to quit. Even a few minutes where you don’t have to think? Don’t have to care, or hurt, or be? Just feel nice, for once in your life? Despite how little you deserve it – feeling nice – it’s terrifying how attractive that is. If you didn’t have Jane to jump into, you would even be able to stick to the plan?

Good thing you don’t have to find out.

With Jane up and running now, you can at least stay active while your own body goes through the worst of it as you tamper down the dose. If you’re lucky, by the end of the week you can trash or re-sell the rest of this garbage.

Needle in bottle, pull it up to the line, less than last time.

Hesitate a moment, look back at your prone body, sprawled out on the bed.

It’s tempting.

What if you just… accidentally overdosed yourself? Let your body die and Jane remain? When Jane goes to sleep, you always wake up back in your own body, so what happens if you have no body to wake back up in? Would you stay as Jane? Free to live a new life – free of the Farm forever? Or would you just… not wake back up?

Honestly, four-two, would that really be so bad?

Jane bites her lip, you can feel her heart racing.

It’s tempting.

Just let it end already.

But if you give up now, the Farm, the Directive, will never get what’s coming to them. What they deserve. Payback for what they’ve done.

Jane taps the needle, squints at the line. She puts the bottle down and returns toward your side, gentle hands taking your arm and rolling up the sleeve past the elbow. Smooth out the skin with an alcohol swab.

Just a pinch, chickadee.

Just a little sting.

You’ll barely feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[too far out of my skin]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20721287)


	5. a seat at the table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your puppet has come a long way since you found her comatose in a hospital bed. There's a long way to go yet, but tonight you get to do something you've been looking forward to a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Everybody Wants To Rule The World]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oO-1d5Hr0Cw)

##  a seat at the table

Breath in, hold, exhale. Jane repeats, motioning with her hands. In, hold, out. It’s fine. This is fine. You’re fine. It’s been a long recovery. But here she is. Standing and walking and moving unaided. A living human woman. Well. For a certain measure of ‘living.’ After all, you’re holding the strings.

Picked this pool for the private changing rooms. Jane doesn’t have your… many drawbacks but that hasn’t eased your discomfort with bodies in any fashion. Any euphoria you might have felt by the absence of certain parts was quickly tempered. It’s absurd though. Jane is empty. There’s no one home without you. There’s no one to be voyeuristic of.

It’s just you, right?

A better you.

A you that needs to get in shape and tone up if she wants to be able to hold her own in the situations you’re going to end up sending her into. Jane runs a finger under the cut of the swimsuit, pulls the fabric down. Should have gone with something more conservative. Stupid.

But – You would never be able to get away with wearing a bathing suit. Jane can, and already she doesn’t look half bad. That’s good, you suppose. Attractiveness is just another tool in the box that you can swing at fools. If you were in your own body, it’s possible you might be moved to tears right now. But to Jane this is nothing. Just any other day. 

One last look over in the mirror and Jane claps her hands together, unlocks the door and stashes her change of clothes in a locker. 

Out in the pool proper, there’s a few late-night stragglers. Like you, probably planning to stay until the staff makes them leave. A few curious glances in Jane’s direction and that’s it. You have Jane pace the circumference of the pool, get the lay of the sea as it were.

It’s a moment’s decision, and Jane finds herself standing at the deep end of the pool, next to the diving board. Heart racing in her chest, lips pressed into a tight grin as she takes one step back, then another, then a few more.

Braces herself…

Someone to the side shouts something and that’s the cue. With a running start, Jane jumps into the air at the pool’s edge, pulling her arms and legs in a split second before impact. Water enveloping all sides, hair floating every which way. Don’t quite touch bottom.

Jane opens her eyes, distorted blue filtering everything. Unfolding, her feet touch the bottom. Can’t fight the grin on her face. The water is everything you could have imagined and then some. Cool but not cold, it’s touch everywhere but not overwhelming like a person’s touch would be. Its contact without intent, a hug without threat.

The ache in her lungs comes too soon and Jane reluctantly pushes off the bottom, claws through the water to the surface. Not far to go, but it’s more tiring than you expected. Maybe you rushed things throwing Jane straight in the deep end.

Head breaks the surface and Jane swallows down air. Hands and feet treading water until the edge of the pool comes in grasping range. Fuck yes…! Unbidden laughter bubbles up, only cutting short by the furious lifeguard.

“If you want to dive, use the diving board,” He jabs a hand to your right before crossing his arms. Taps his foot. “You know the rules, no running jumps, no cannon balls.”

Jane purses her lips, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Do it again and you’re banned for a week.”

“Whatever, buddy.” Jane pushes off the edge. What did you do for the backstroke again? Move your arms like this…? Once Jane has the hang of it, she pauses, raising a hand out of the water to flip the bird to the retreating back of the lifeguard. As soon as he turns around, the hand returns to the water with a splash.

Fuck him. In a year or two, you and Jane will have this city eating out of your hands.

Maybe you’ll get to take a swim in your own body by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[mammalian diving reflex]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076131)


	6. hungry soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Los Diablos underground runs on a strange kind of trust. Everybody needs an 'in' if they want to get a slice of the action. Just showing up at an underground bar isn’t enough. So where are you going to find Jane's?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: homophobia, misogyny
> 
> [[Next of Kin]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WobHWQp2liA)

##  hungry soul

Someone’s made a mistake here.

You just hope it wasn’t you.

Jane takes a step backward, it’s not hard to play the part of fearful victim. Her heart is pounding hard enough. You only just had Jane start taking Aikido lessons; still working on getting her in shape, getting used to how her body moves. Mod or boost, maybe you’d be able to take on one guy. But three?

The man in the tan suit smirks, hands hidden in his pockets. “What’s the matter, chica? Hank here’s just got some questions.” ‘Hank,’ the reedy man in the bomber jacket behind him stares at you but doesn’t say anything. “He’s shy.”

Behind Jane someone grips her shoulder, she looks up to see a pair of sullen eyes under an emo fringe of dyed green hair. The guy that’d been tailing her for the past block after being turned away from Joes. Of course. Shouldn’t be surprised. These are the kind of thugs you might need to hire someday.

Well. Maybe not these thugs.

Do you abandon Jane now and hope you get across town in time or do you play this out, hope you can figure out someway to get Jane out under her own power? Jane’s heart pounds in her chest, adrenaline running high. 

The plan is still nebulous enough that losing your puppet wouldn’t be the end of the world but still… saving Jane’s life only to get her hurt doing your dirty work? You knew going in that was a risk. It was part of the whole point! But something about it feels deeply wrong.

The hand on Jane’s shoulder digs into her skin. “Answer the question, sunshine.”

Jane balls up her hands into fists. You’re better than this. Better than them. You didn’t survive everything that’s happened just to let three goons threaten Jane and get away with it. You’ll fucking kill them first.

Somehow.

The man in the tan suit steps closer to Jane. “I said, what’s a normie doing in Joe’s, chica?”

Jane takes a deep breath, sneers at him. “None of your business, you Hollywood has-been.”

Jane’s vision fills with stars as tan suit slaps her across the face. He tuts. “You better start treating me with a bit more respect, sugar, or this is going to be a very, very bad day for you.”

A half-strangled sob of fear escape Jane’s lips. Let them think they’ve got her on the backswing. Emo-fringe loosens his grip slightly. ‘Hank’ is going to be the wildcard here but if you time things right….

“You gonna fill me in now, or are we gonna keep doing this?” Tan suit raises his hand again–

Now.

It feels like Deja Vu. You push off to the side, twist, grab, push emo fringe into his friend. The two stagger and you kick at the base of emo fringe’s spine before they can recover. They wobble in a mass of yelling limbs and fall to the ground. You take off running, don’t wait to see what the third guy does. Curses chase after you in the twilight and soon enough you hear the pounding of shoes on cement after you. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Calm down. Stay calm. You’re in control. You need to get Jane out of this.

You can do this. You’re not some helpless little thing, cowering in the corner. You Are In Control.

You have Jane make a hard right turn at the intersection without slowing down. Scan the storefronts as you go to get your bearings. Infuriatingly, your normally impeccable sense of direction doesn’t extend to Jane. 

As if to prove the point, ‘Hank’ steps out of the alleyway in front of you and Jane slides to a halt. “ _Fuck_.” Jane’s pursuers are catching up fast behind her. You’re not going to be able to pull the same trick twice. 

Hank moves towards you, then there’s a loud ‘thwap’ and he freezes. Jane flinches as he crumbles to the ground. Standing behind him is a woman, shorter than Jane, wearing cargo pants and a crop top shaking her fist.

“Damn, that always hurts.” She winks, grinning at Jane. “You okay?”

Jane braces her hands on her knees, catching her breath. “Two more. Heads up.”

Her grin vanishes. “Yeah, I see them. Fucking Billy at it again.” She steps around Hank’s body and past you, hands on her hips. In the streetlight you see the glint of a brass knuckles on one fist. Huh.

“Yo! Billy! What’s the big idea!?”

Jane turns to see the man in the tan suit and the kid with the emo-fringe pull to a stop a few feet away from Jane’s would-be rescuer. She better know what she’s doing. Jane dusts herself off, takes a few breaths to calm her heart down. It might be necessary to get moving again in a hurry.

The man in the tan suit (Billy?) narrows his eyes, shoves his hands back into his pockets. “None of your beeswax Rosie. We was just having a friendly chat and the chica got fresh with us for no reason at all.”

“You better leave my girl alone Billy or I’ll punch your shit out just like old times.”

Billy looks between Rosie and Jane, then sneers. “Always knew you were a dyke, Rosie.”

“Just ‘cause I don’t wanna sleep with a dickless wonder like you don’t mean I gotta be gay, Billy.” Rosie widens her stance. “You wanna get your ass whooped again or you gonna be good and take your buddy home? Must have had too much to drink tonight.”

The four stand on the sidewalk but no one makes the first move.

After what feels like an eternity, Billy relents, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Fine. You win this time Rosie. But only ‘cause you so good lookin’.” He makes a kissing sound with his mouth before waving to his friend. “Com’on, help me get Hank on his feet.”

The two of them walk past Rosie and Jane without sparing a glance in either direction. Jane moves to the side, bracing herself up against the brick wall of a closed hair salon. Keep one eye on Billy and his gang. Try to calm down. Let the adrenaline run out. Galling that someone else had to step in and save Jane, but there’s a rush of gratitude all the same.

Rosie dusts her hands off and watches them stagger off. “Next time I’m kicking all your asses into next week Billy, you hear me?” She dips her head and gives Jane a worried look. “You okay?”

Unclenching her hands, Jane nods. “I– I had it handled.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But thanks.”

“Some of these boys think just living through the boost drug means you can do anything. Idiots.”

Jane looks up at Rosie, gives her a grateful smile. “You’re a vigilante?”

Rosie raises her eyebrows, puts a hand to her chest in mock shock. “Me? Fuck no.” Her smile turns grim. “Fuck society. What has society ever done for me?”

“I know the feeling.” Jane returns the smile.

“Yeah, I saw you trying to get into Joes. Not too smart, a normie poking their head in where it doesn’t belong.”

Jane shakes her head, while gears spin in yours. Maybe you can get something out of this night after all. “So if you’re not a vigilante, what do you do?”

“Me?” Rosie at least has the good sense to look sheepish. “Oh, you know. Stuff. Odd jobs. I get around.”

Uh-huh.

“You looking for work right now?”

That gets her attention. “What kind of work?”

“My…” How should you phrase this? What kind of relationship does Jane have to Ariadne? “My… ah, my employer is looking to acquire a few things.” Jane waggles a hand. “Kind of… grey market. Actually –” A cruel smile spreads across Jane’s face. “If you need some easy cash, I know this one dumb-ass lifeguard...”

“A lifeguard?” Rosie slips a friendly arm around Jane’s shoulders. “Is that so? Keep talking and maybe I can hook you up with something.” The little gesture is enough to set Jane’s heart racing again. You squash it down.

“Maybe I can buy you a drink? As a thanks for tonight, if nothing else.”

Rosie laughs. “Hell yeah. That’s what I like to hear, girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[hollywood has-been]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128849)


	7. hell, i pay the price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane's built a reputation, but now it's time to cash in. Unfortunately, you can’t do everything on your own just yet. Until then, you’ll have to depend on others, and that means carefully vetting any longer-term collaborators.
> 
> You’ve got a strict deadline to work with, so you better get moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Somebody's Watching Me]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WW6daXUnrs)

##  hell, i pay the price

The bartender nods in Jane’s direction as she steps in off the street. She nods back, weaves her way past tables towards the back room. Making friends with Rosie had proven to be your ticket into the backroom at Joes. She was a known face, someone that was willing to vouch for you. Especially after throwing her a couple easy jobs. With a solid year under her belt now, Jane had a reliable reputation as an employer.

Work for Jane. Do your job. Get paid. No fuss, no muss.

Never anything dramatic. Some of the first couple jobs you had Jane send people on was as much about learning how to commission people then it was about getting anything material. Jane had the rep; now it was time to cash it in.

Jane sits down in her seat, across from the dark-skinned woman in the white lab coat. “You’re here early.” She says, looking over the woman in front of her. Orange tinted shades, natural hair, toothy smile.

“I find punctuality to be a valuable trait, mademoiselle.” Her accent is some flavor of French but it’s hard to place. “I am most pleased, at last, to meet you in-person, Miss Jane.”

“The feeling is mutual, Dr. Mortum.” Jane drops her purse in front of her on the table with a smile. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“All good things, I’m certain?” Mortum laughs and the conversation pauses as the two of you order drinks.

Jane watches her with a tight grin. As soon as the waitress is gone she leans in, “I wouldn’t have sought you out otherwise. The inestimable Dr. Mortum, dabbler in the impossible.”

Dr. Mortum huffs, a hand raised. “Dabbler? I assure you, mademoiselle, I do not dabble.”

“I’m glad to hear it Doctor,” Jane pulls out a folded piece of paper from her purse and slides it over. “I’ll need more than a dabbler for what my employer wants next.”

The good doctor gives Jane a suspicious look before carefully picking up the paper, unfolding it. Her brow furrows as she reads over the schematics, the rest of her face hidden.

Jane gives her a moment to read it over. “Can you build this?”

“Some of these components are–”

Jane interrupts, waving away the complaint, “leave the acquisition of the exotic elements to me. All I need to know is: can you build this? And can you do it discreetly?”

Mortum is supposed to be a specialist in working with telepath sensitive technology. Expertise you’ll need if you want to control something as dangerous as what you have in mind. Control that’ll you need to buffer with other, incredibly rare and expensive telepath sensitive equipment.

It’s a house of cards, but you know better then anyone exactly what kind of edge you need if you’re going to come out of this on top. And you’ll never stand a chance against the Directive if you can’t even defeat the Rangers.

The Doctor might need some goading though. Jane shifts in her seat, just as you suspected, the woman can’t resist a quick glance at Jane’s cleavage. Another rope you can pull her in with then, good. Toss out another; “Surely, this little project isn’t beyond your ability?”

“Nothing is beyond my ability.” Dr Mortum folds the paper, places it gently down on the table. “Given enough funding and time to source from the appropriate vendors. And I’ll need to flesh out these plans further to properly integrate the…” She shakes her head, pulling herself back to the present. 

Jane takes a sip, watching Dr. Mortum over the rim of the glass. “How much time, dear doctor? I’m afraid my boss has a strict time frame for this work.”

Dr. Mortum snorts, shaking her head. “It’s too soon to give you anything quantifiable this far out. Too many things to source, potential complications… that will need to be prototyped for, merde, A few months, perhaps? Maybe a little less if things go smoothly.” Another suspicious look in Jane’s direction. “And moreover, this will not be cheap.”

Just like you hoped, the challenge has snared her. Jane smiles back, raises a hand to take the wine glass from the returning waitress. “Then, let’s talk prices, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[hell, i pay the price]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20906828)


	8. i don’t need your sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike up the band, It's showtime.
> 
> And Lady Argent? You get to be the star singer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: death, mind control
> 
> [[Long Division]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XiL-0h4tEM)

##  i don’t need your sympathy

It had been a simple process of elimination. 

Ortega? Immune. Also, no way.

Chen? Hate him, too risky. The feeling was always mutual.

What about the new kid, Herald? Former corporate hero and golden boy, the replacement. No Fucking. Way. How did this asshole even hook up with Lady Argent? She’s too good for him.

Lady Argent ‘won’ by virtue of no strong feelings either way. That’s what this called for, can’t risk leaving any echoes of yourself that could give you away later.

At least, that’s how you think it works. Possession on this kind of scale has never been heard of, to your knowledge. Make it up as you go along. It’s not like there’s a manual to pull out.

God, you wish there was a manual.

Would it have been better to find a different way to get the nanovores? Not getting them wasn’t an option. They were going to be the linchpin of the whole suit. Stopping them had once been your greatest accomplishment. The thing that had made Sidestep famous and they still haunt your dreams.

_ Elysie contorts in a strangled screams as a silver sheen tore her apart atom by atom. You pulled back on Ortega as she reached out her hand. You can’t save her now. The nanovores tunnel up from below, devouring the field emitter and your friend both. Ortega buckles, rolling off you, a splash of silver on her arm, raising smoke _

In your dreams, you never manage to do it. Hold the swarm. They swallow you all. Every nerve lighting up in terror before cutting short. Dissolved from the outside-in.

It had to be them. You’re not running from anything.

After the disaster, most of the swarm was destroyed, but a small sample was stored in the Rangers vault. Like one keeps the last remnants of a once deadly contagion. And who else had both the access and the ready excuse to walk in except one of the Rangers?

Besides, you’ve working to an ever tightening time schedule. The almost two months of prep-work just to get the chance to possess Argent had already been veering on too much. But this had to go perfectly.

A rented room, across the street from the physical therapy clinic Argent visited every week. Wait until she’s on her way out, most relaxed. Then–

Reach out

This is the only way. Sorry chickadee, here comes the net.

Cables, like snakes in the grass, coiled around the feet, the red threads that bind your wrists wrapping hers – sinking into her –

_ her thoughts are your thoughts  _

_ your thoughts are her thoughts _

Wrap the song around, time to march to another drummer sweetheart. You think about her stretching out her hand in front of her face, flexing fingers, watch through her eyes as she does it. Isn’t it lighter, easier, to have someone else call the shots? Trust you, you would know.

Flash of green, reflection in glass shards.

The safe thing to do is to let her rest, sleep, but this is a delicate operation and her mind is buzzing under your baton like an angry swarm. Got to ride the lightning, just awake enough to access the vault, just asleep enough to not cast you out. Something like a REM from hell. Ghosts on the walls, the song you remember but the words you forget.

First, grab the decoy you tucked into the alley dumpster. Next – straight to the vault.

This is the kind of thing that scars people for life. But what do you care? You’re beyond caring. This is survival – no – revenge. They’re all going to fucking pay for what was done to you. Treating you like you mattered? A lie. They tossed you aside like trash in the end. Where did Ortega think you were going? The incinerator?

You’ll burn the world down first. And soon you’ll have the match.

It’s hard not to laugh. and is it her adrenaline or yours – your heart or yours – that’s pounding in your ear? The woman of steel, playing to your tune? You let Argent grin, note the couple on the street that shy away. Strike up the band, it’s showtime.

And you, she, the both of you, are doing so well, so well. Walk in no sweat, pass the security. Her vision is a fascination: a web of electric thrumming. The city beats in ways you only dreamed of. She gets to live like this?

Focus! You have to. Stay. In. Control.

Get the box, put the decoy in its place. Who will question you? You? Lady Argent. That’s who you are. Don’t look – and Herald!? Fuck why is Herald here? Why now!? Argent’s mind bucks under the strings, scattering notes and stepping on flats and fuck fuck fuck it’s all going to be ruined at the last moment you need to get out.

Reach forward, sock it to Herald right in the face. Oh? You both liked that, curious. Trouble in paradise?

Time to run. There’s about to be more.

Herald moves after you-in-Argent, sucking in your breath you bring in your arms pressing the box in your hands tight to Argent’s chest as you jump through the window. Glass shards cut against her skinsuit and leave alarming stinging notes across her skin. Hit the ground and into a roll, back to your feet. That was a lot easier to do than you expected.

Someone’s had practice jumping through windows.

You shake the glass out of your hair and take off down the street. Herald is close at your heels. You stop to swing a hand out at a lamp post, the impact rattles Argent’s bones and fuck that hurt. Behind you the post topples over, knocked off it’s bolts like bent plastic and not steel. Car alarms go up in a chorus as windows break and roofs cave in.

Need to find a drop off point that won’t be immediately compromised. Which means losing the fly nipping at Argent’s heels. Sliding against cement you run through the city, trash everything you come across. There’s an electricity to ripping the caps off of fire hydrants, smashing in cars.

And if it makes problems for Argent later, all the better.

Twist and turn on her heels, feel the bone grind in protest as you stop and change direction. The mall seems as promising as anything. Don’t even have to bother with the doors, just jump through the glass again. Damn that’s a rush! How does Argent manage to go a day without breaking shit just for fun?

Something hits your back from behind and you’re sent sailing off Argent’s feet. Crashing face first into drywall. Pain blossoms over Argent’s face as the kinetic energy builds and then SNAP the wall gives out sending you tumbling through into an aisle of men’s pants. You buck your back and send Herald over your head, crashing into a clothing rack.

Fuck that hurt. Wasn’t Argent supposed to be invulnerable? You pat yourself down, no visible marks on the woman of steel’s polished skin. The box still firmly cupped in your hands.

Herald groans, pushing himself to his feet. “Angie? Come on, let’s talk about this. What’s gotten into you?”

A grin curls across your face. What has gotten into Argent? It’s just as well you don’t dare give her enough control to speak. You’d be tempted to spill everything right here and now. Fools. They’ve got no idea what’s coming for them.

Don’t give Herald a chance to get his bearings. You march Argent over, grab him by the collar of his uniform and hold him up off the ground. He starts to fight you, but a fist to his gut knocks the wind out of him. With a roar you slam him back to the ground and kick him hard in the ribs. Herald groans in pain, so you kick the bastard a second time, then a third for good measure once he goes limp.

Fuck.

You wouldn’t even need the nanovores if you had Argent’s powers. Tempting to stick around, try to figure out that shape-shift shit she does with her hands. Make something sharp to finish off Herald here and now. How about that for the papers? ‘Lover’s quarrel turns deadly!’

But you can’t risk it. Priority one is the nanovores.

Hunching down your shoulders you barrel through the mall, vandalising the place as you go until you find a back exit. Set off the fire alarm as you break the door down. Next alley over you find what looks like a good place, a dumpster that looks like it hasn’t been emptied in years. You shove the box under a pizza box.

Now, how to end Argent’s little rampage? Come back out of the alley, you race down the street. Need to make sure the circus stays a good distance away. Grabbing a parked car, you get yourself under it, slowly lift the hunk of metal over your head. Goddamn this woman is strong. Holy fuck. A thousand screaming nerves of pain in the back of your head as you do it, but who gives it a shit. With a scream you throw the car into the middle of the stopped track light, bending in half and crashing the light against the asphalt

A new wave of screams shoots up around you and you stagger backwards. Cackle. How could you have ever doubted that Argent was the right choice? This is exhilarating. For once the world is bending to what you want.

Movement down the road catches your attention. A man in power armor is barreling your direction at full speed. Is that… Chen? ‘Marshal’ Steel now, you suppose. Great. Let’s see what he can do.

You brace yourself against the asphalt and take off running, a wide grin stretched across Argent’s face. As you near, you jump up into the air, aiming to land a punch square in the center of Chen’s stupid face.

A heavy metal fist swings around, hitting you first.

Everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[doesn’t matter how long you last, ‘cause i have rigged the game]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20676380)


	9. young graves filled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You won your prize, and had a blast doing it. Great. There’s no time to rest on your laurels though. Hand off the package as soon as you can, maybe check-in with the local scene while you’re at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emetophobia
> 
> [[black me out]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWB_b480-9c)

##  young graves filled

You bolt up from the floor, the side of your head still sore. Takes a moment to reorient yourself. Your back in the hotel. Chen and Argent are a mile away. That pain is probably from when you collapsed to the ground after possessing Argent. Not from Chen’s punch. The process doesn’t work that way. Different bodies.

Nausea roils up and you coil over in time to evacuate your stomach on the hotel floor. Coughing and heaving, spittal trails from your mouth as you wipe yourself off with the back of a hand, hold back your hair with the other. Fuck. Forgot the hairband again.

Returning to your body always fucking sucks. More evidence that something inside you is fundamentally broken. Not even _it_ wants to be here. Staggering to your feet, you shuffle to the bathroom to rinse out your mouth and clean up.

The safe thing to do is to find another stooge to possess, puppet them over to pick up the box and move it somewhere even further away from the chaos, where you can grab it. But…

It’s been seven years. Ariadne is dead. No one will be thinking to look for this face, and the Rangers have, you laugh to yourself, other things on their mind right now. Doing more then one possession in one day always sucks anyway.

You’re unsteady on your feet as you make your way back down to the street. Slip on your sunglasses and pull up your hood before stepping outside. Just another nobody. Nothing to see here.

By the time you near the action, siren lights cut across the gathered crowd as LD police set up a cordon. Several plumes of smoke reach up into a hazy sky. Looks like you’ll have to take a side-cut to get around to where you left the goods.

A familiar mind brushes the edge of your awareness and you stop dead in your path. Pull a song tight around your head to drown out the murmur of people. Chen’s at the center of this crowd. Fuck.

Just keep walking. Don’t stop.

Instead of doing that, you push through the throng of people until you get a good look at the scene. Argent lies enmeshed in a net, propped up against a police van while Marshal Steel and some cop are in a terse discussion. There’s a break in the conversation and Chen sweeps his eyes over the crowd. For a moment, your heart stops. Did he see you? Recognize your face? He moves on. No give-away changes in his face or thoughts.

Tentatively, you prod at the police officer’s head. You need a distraction for Chen. The LD police hold no love for the Rangers these days. You get the sense the feeling is mutual, going by Chen’s face. Too many times they’ve stepped on each other’s toes. And now one the Rangers goes on an inexplicable rampage?

It doesn’t take much to coax the officer to continue the argument. “Are you listening to me, Marshal? This is police business!”

Chen turns his head to coolly examine the other man. He flexes his shoulder, stretching his prosthetic arm. “This is Ranger business.”

“Ranger business!? Your ‘Ranger’ just tore up half the city–”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“–if you can’t even police your own people what good are you lot for?” Hrm… what if you could get Argent thrown off the team? What would she even do then? “We’re taking her in.”

Chen’s eyes narrow, mouth in a tight frown as he crosses his arms. In his armor he towers over the officer. “You will not. The Rangers will handle this situation.”

“Like hell you will! More likely, you’ll just sweep it under the rug like always.” The cop steps forward. Damn, he’s doing remarkably well. Barely needs you to egg him on. “It’s always the same, one of you fuckers screws up, people get hurt or die and nothing ever comes of it.” He prods Chen in the middle of the chest, “Like it or not, Marshal, but your people are not above the law!”

Chen’s expression doesn’t change, which is how you know he’s really pissed now. With both of them sufficiently embroiled in wanting to tear out the other’s throat, you turn away. Back into the crowd.

Fuck. Too close.

What were you thinking, you idiot? You let the crowd shuffling you back out, stepping into an alley to cut around the cordon. You’ve avoided all contact with the Rangers so far. There’s no need for it. Maybe… maybe when you’ve got them bleeding out on the ground, you’ll show them exactly what put them there. But that’s still a long way away.

But getting closer every minute.

You don’t relax into your hands curl around the non-descript black box. Smooth and featureless save the seam on one end. It’s… fuck, it’s heavier then you expected it to be. In Argent’s hands it was a feather.

Gritting your teeth, you try to tuck it surreptitiously under your arm. The sooner you can hand this off to Dr. Mortum to work with the better.

As you walk home, your steps have a new energy to them. One that matches the glow in your chest. You really did it, huh? You took one of the strongest and most intimidating members of the Los Diablos Rangers and bent her to your will, a puppet to dance to your tune. You thought this would be harder. That maybe Chen would somehow single you out of the crowd, or Argent would shoot up, pointing at you, screaming.

But the only screams today were the ones you caused. God that rampage felt good. To be on the stage for once, to just let loose instead of cowering in a corner praying no one sees you. Can’t wait until you get to do it again.

This is it now. You’ve stolen a crime against humanity by committing another. Suppose you don’t really know what kind of person Argent is. Don’t really care. She probably deserved it somehow. There’s no turning back from this. No more running. You are in the one control here. Not her or Chen, or anyone else.

The day will come where everyone understands that. When they’re begging for the mercy they never gave you. They’ll wish they had done something, learned something… maybe even that they had just done the job properly the first time and killed you like you had begged for.

And it all starts here. In this heavy little box.


	10. never get up again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment passes quickly. Your hamburger wrapper can’t strike back at you for throwing it away. You can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Stay Down]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26lVP_tg5fs)

##  never come up again

The weight of the box pulls at Jane’s purse, strap digging into her shoulder. Clicking her tongue, she slips a hand up between the two, holding it up. Can’t look too obvious. Can’t take any risks. The crowd at Joes tonight is buzzing. Even the lowlife here are gossiping over Lady Argent’s rampage. 

The bouncer nods at Jane as she steps past. “Busy night. Watch yourself.”

She winks, smiling back. “You know me, tough guy. I always give as good as I get.”

He frowns. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

One last smirk finished off with finger guns and Jane spins back around to step into the bar. Rosie looks up from the counter, face brightening as she waves Jane over.

“Heeeey! Jane, my girl, what’s happening?” She claps a hand on Jane’s back, the other still firmly latched to her drink.

Jane laughs along, “Sorry, I can’t stay and chat tonight.”

Rosie’s expression drops as she pulls a face. “Aw man, that boss of yours got you running ragged don’t he? You hardly ever get to hang out these days.”

“You know how it is.” Jane shrugs, an apologetic shrug. “Gotta strike when the iron’s hot.”

“Pfft. Boy is it ever!” Rosie laughs, pulling Jane closer. “Did you hear about the shit that went down today? I’m telling ya, those Ranger stiffs are losing it.”

Despite yourself, a warm smile spreads across Jane’s face. “I might’ve heard a thing or two. Think they’ll fire that metal bitch?”

Rosie frowns at that. “Geeze Jane.”

Fuck. Jane’s smile vanishes, red flooding her face. “S–sorry.”

Shrugs, throws back the rest of her drink. “But yeah, I seriously doubt that. They’re already doing the full media blackout thing. Cover story, the whole nine yards. Nothing’ll happen to her.” She brightens up again. “But, hey, listen;”

“Yeah?” Jane props her elbow up on the bar, “What’s up, Rosie?”

“You’ll never guess my next gig.” She giggles. Oh boy, she’s getting drunk early tonight. “Go on.”

Jane smiles, “City Hall.”

“WRONG!” Rosie cackles, rocks back on her chair. “Listen, listen,” her voice drops to whisper. Jane leans in. “You didn’t hear this from me, but uh, me and the Wolfpack, we’re going to do some uh, serious guard work down by the docks, for you-know-who.”

Jane’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t say?” Psychopathor’s getting back into smuggling again? What nice timing.

“I don’t! That’s the point!” Rosie cackles, then drops her voice again. “Easy money, easier work. Gonna be loaded next week.”

“Well good for you Rosie, congrats.” Jane mirrors her friend’s grin, clapping her on the back. On impulse she fishes out a twenty, slamming it on the ground. “Hey! Hey, can I get a round for my good friend here!”

Rosie blinks, “Damn, you rock Jane!”

“Hey, next time, the drinks are on you, yeah?” Jane winks as she turns away.

“Haha, hell yeah!” Rosie rises her new glass up, “I’ll drink to that!”

Jane raises a hand in farewell as she walks to the back of the bar. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

So Psychopathor is going to spending a lot of time down by the harbor soon huh? Good. You don’t have to wait before you start moving forward with the next phase of the plan. As soon as you finish the current phase that is…

Dr. Mortum is already waiting at her usual table in the back corner. The neighboring tables are, as always, completely empty. Whether that’s a courtesy to the doctor or the other patrons know it’s bad for their health to listen in, you’re not sure. You’ve never asked.

Mortum herself brightens up as Jane sits down, taking the orange-tinted glasses off and leaving them on the table. “Bonjour, ma chérie! Good to see you this evening. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jane’s smile is prim and professional and she drops her purse on the table with a thud. “Got you a present, my good doctor.”

“A present, for me?” She laughs, swirls her wine glass in one hand. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m very good at getting people what they want.” With a flourish, Jane pulls the box out of her purse. “Take a look at this, won’t you?” She pushes it across the table.

Dr. Mortum frowns and she gingerly picks up the box, setting her glass aside. Turns it over in her hands. “Is this…?” She finds the release seal and the top pops open, a grey puff of smoke billowing out. “Merde…” She gasps and grabs at her glasses, jamming them back on as she pulls out another, smaller black box with an almost reverential care. “Jane, do you understand what you have here?”

Can’t stop the smile. “You’re the scientist, dear. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

The woman tsks at that, turning the box over on all sides, examining each surface. “Just possessing this violates at least three diferent international laws, I am sure.” She carefully slides the box back in, closing the lid. “These are actual nanovores… in a void cage.” She sounds giddy, a child a Christmas. “How on earth did you get these…?”

“I have my ways.” Jane waves the question away. Mortum’s a smart woman. She’ll put two-and-two together soon enough. You don’t need to help her along. “What I care about now is, will these do it? Will it work with the suit?”

“I… can make the necessary modifications, yes.” Dr. Mortum raps her fingers against the table, staring at the nanovore box as if transfixed. “It should be relatively simple. The trickier part is keeping them under control, even with the other component you already promised to get me.” She shoots a worried glance over to Jane. “You are not telepathically sensitive.”

“No, I’m not.” Jane admits with a shrug, What’s with the reluctance all of a sudden? “But this isn’t for me, now is it?”

“I… suppose so.”

Jane leans in, makes sure Mortum gets a good eyeful as she props her elbows on the table. “And what about modifying the codebase itself? Can you do that?”

She tilts her head, tearing her gaze away. “The codebase?” Mortum rubs her chin. “Oui, that should be doable… hack into their internal network, that should be simple enough.”

“Good.” Jane nods, breathes a sigh of relief. “So you can disable the replication? Keep them to inorganic materials only?”

Dr. Mortum visibly relaxes as she sits back in her seat. “Ah, I see now. It should be as simple as flipping a few variables.” She tsks. “Child’s play, ma chérie.” She picks up her wine glass again, smiling. “A good thought.”

“You’re sure?”

She huffs at that, “I do not traffic in failure.”

“Good.” Jane nods. “No one wants another nanovore swarm.” Not even you.

Not yet anyway.

“I could modify the left gauntlet I think. Reinforce it. Shouldn’t take much extra work, but…” She looks pointedly over the rims of her glasses. “It will mean an extra fee.”

“Fine” Jane huffs. “Just as long as it’s done on time. I’ve got a deadline to keep.”

“Your’s or your boss’s?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” Mortum’s attention returns to the box. “Provided that last payment clears, I can promise your employer will have it ready for testing in four weeks.”

The mornings after a night out as Jane are always the weirdest. Your body feels energetic even if your mind doesn’t. It’s better than another nightmare.

Anything’s better than those.

The moment the pharmacist hands you the pill bottles you reach in with your mind and wrap the last five minutes in a blur of sound. Her eyes glaze over and she wanders away into the backroom. Oh, what’s that? The pills are on the house? You’re too kind.

It’s taken you over almost a decade to get it through your thick idiot skull, but you can’t hide from the truth any longer. You can’t count on anyone else. They convince you to open your heart only so they can stab it better, or abandon you, or just straight up die. The thought you could be like one of them, milling about in the throng of the city lost in their empty-headed thoughts…

It’s hard to even remember; what it was like. What anything was like before you fell out that window. You aren’t that person anymore. It’s just as well. She was just as much of a fake load of shit as you are. At least you’re honest about it now.

For example:

The pharmacist is going to get in serious trouble if your ‘free sample’ is caught. Maybe she’ll even lose her job. Once that might have given you pause but now you swallow the guilt down with a glass of water, before screwing the lid back on the bottle of spiro.

Remember when you had friends? Every single one of those people would hate you if they knew you. Really knew you. Who you are. What you are.

So why hold back? Why even care anymore?

You crumble the hamburger wrapper into a ball and toss it towards the trash can. It bounces off the rim and into the bush. Gritting your teeth you suppress the urge to pick it up. Let it fucking rot where it fell. The whole city is a trash heap.

And yet…

You feel a strange sense of kinship with the wadded waxpaper. Garbage that escaped disposal. The moment passes quickly. Your wrapper can’t strike back at you for throwing it away.

But you can.

It’ll probably destroy you, but that seems less like a bug; more like a feature.

The estrogen is still dissolving under your tongue when the row of TVs for sale in a store window demand your attention with a news report. A gas leak down Central caused mass hallucinations…?

_That’s_ the cover story they’re going with to cover up your little show? Have to snicker at that. No wonder everyone’s been talking about it anyway. You had Argent throwing cars around and breaking traffic lights. Can’t cover up everything.

Still. Looks like Rosie was right. Nothing’s going to happen to Argent. Which means she still came out of her little adventure better than you ever did yours.

That’s fine. Once your suit is done, there will be plenty of time to make sure they all pay. This is only a beginning after all.

No more distractions.

“Well…” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “Time to see what I can do with this city.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[never come up again]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20280181)


	11. you drink the wise blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to break every rule you put down to keep yourself safe. But there’s not enough time to work out a better, less stupid plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emetophobia, death
> 
> [[Demons]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0_BlUbGBSo)

#  How long has this been going on?

##  you drink the wise blood

His hands won’t stop shaking. Not even borrowing another body would be enough distance. Have to stop the dial twice, start over. Get the number right. Fuck.

“Hello?” Cold curiosity on the other end. “Who is this?”

That–

That voice.

fuck

_ why _

Cold sweat, shakes, and a pained throat makes it difficult to speak. Force through it. Stronger than this. Don’t let go. Can feel him slipping away from you. Get a grip. Stay in control. “Th–thirty four B. Southern Docks. Psychopathor.”

“Who are you?” The voice hardens, “How did you get this number?”

“N–never mind th–that. He won’t be expecting it. That’s the important thing.”

“Wait, what–”

The phone drops out of his hands, and the man brings his foot down on it hard enough to crack the case. Again and again, until it’s a jumped pile of shattered plastic and silicon. Scoop it with the edge of his foot and kick it over the edge of the wharf. They got the message. They’ll check it out. 

They will check it out, right?

Have to.

Can’t just wipe this guy as you leave him. Got to cover your tracks. Kill him? No, a body would be too suspicious. You walk the business man back to his car, start the engine. It’s an hour drive back into the city proper. God you hate possessing men. Everything about it. The smell, the shape, the – the parts… Just the worst.

When you finally let go of his mind, he’s a drink deep in a dive bar. It’s a kinder exit then he deserves but you can’t take any risks when it comes to the Special Directive.

* * *

An explosion shakes the ground under your feet and echoes off the complex of warehouses as you pull behind a wall of crates, a stream of curses running through your head. Light temporarily blinding the harbor before the dark reclaims the night. Your goggles automatically adjust to the light level, dropping in and out of night-vision settings. Snazzy. If this is the level of quality you can expect from Dr. Mortum, you picked the right mad scientist to work with.

The Re-Gene team showed up much faster than you expected. Sure you had taken the extra time to get your stooge sloshed, but you had hoped you’d get at least enough time to down a ginger ale and quell the nausea.

Nope!

Fucking hell.

A team of combat-class Re-Genes like this typically has four members plus a lookout.. All with exotic powers, high-end skinsuits and their characteristic blue-grey skin and bright orange tattoos. Wouldn’t want anyone mistaking them for real people after all.

You clutch the pistol to your chest as you feel about for any nearby presences. Not exactly in the habit of owning guns, but you already broke your biggest rule tonight. You can bend this one.

There’s a Re-Gene up in the tower overlooking the docks already. That’ll be the lookout. Probably SCO-class? Some sort of enhanced sensory ability. Brushing it’s mind, seems like some combination of sight and sound. Good. It doesn’t take much to slip past it’s mental defenses, widen the cracks in the discipline. No training program is perfect. Re-Gene bodies are human bodies after all. And humans itch, hearts beat, stomachs gurgle. Everything is so loud, isn’t it? Pressing in?

How awful for you, you poor thing.

The note of distress barely lasts five seconds before the thrumming of its own blood in the ears is too much. The consciousness winks out.

Good. Coast clear. 

Gunfire continues to bounce off the walls, louder now that you’re inside. Four more Re-Genes to account for, and however many Wolfpack goons Psychopathor packed his little operation with. All that really matters, however, is to get your prize and get out. You hunch your shoulders and pull at the edges of your leather jacket. A bit of camouflage to go over the black skinsuit. Adjusting your mask, you tap the goggles.

So where’s the action…?

Fuck – is that?

You squint at nothing in particular. No, that’s Rosie. Shouldn’t surprised. She told Jane about this in the first place – and yet you had hoped…

She’s going to get killed out there. Unless you do something. You hiss, gritting your teeth as one of the Wolfpack goes down, his screams bouncing through the warehouse. Is it just the one Re-Gene picking them off?

No. You can do this.

You suck in your breath as you slide to the ground, closing your eyes. Seven Wolfpack gangsters still standing plus Rosie. They’re afraid. Directionless. Susceptible. Together maybe you could…?

Pushing Rosie to stay put at her position you spread out your awareness among the other seven. It’s disorienting to say the least of it. Quickly, build a mental map of the warehouse, push the gang to reposition. Number 6 goes down in a flash of blue and pain and you suck in your breath, heart pounding in your ears.

Adjust positions, set sights. There! Gunfire echoes through the building as the Re-Gene is driven out of hiding. Fast! Big jumps, sticks to surfaces? Fuck – you push Number 2 to look up but it’s too late, there’s a twinge of crimson pain in her neck and then nothing.

Number 5 goes down before you can relocate everyone, push back again. Need to set a trap. Shaking your head, you scramble back to your feet. Harder to keep track of everything and move at the same time. Too many parallel processes. But you’re doing it. Holy shit. Number 1 falls back just in time to avoid a swap from bloodied claws, with 3 and 4 providing covering fire as he retreats.

You holster your pistol and grab Number 6’s fallen assault rifle, swap out for a full clip. Take up position at an intersection and – fuck – Number 4 goes down, forgot about them. How did it get behind her?

You find the Re-Gene’s mind and grab it, pulling hard. It hesitates, caught in the opening as 1, 3, and 7 unload on it from the left. The thing breaks free and bounces away, coming down on 7, stabbing them straight through the chest. 1 and 3 break ranks, running for it, slipping out of your control.

Shit shit shit.

Pull a song tight around your head as you focus. The Re-Gene catches sight of you just in time for you to pull the trigger. Fuck! That’s fast – you twist away just in time for bloody claws to rend the air where your head just was. The other hand catches you as you try to reposition. Fire lights up your back and down your left arm, white lines of pain white out your vision as they cut through your skinsuit and shred your jacket. You fall to the ground, screaming.

Roll onto your back and out of the way of the follow up blow. You jam the muzzle of the gun against the Re-Gene’s side and empty the rest of the clip, three shots. It coughs, spitting up blood and collapses next to you.

You let the gun drop from your hand.

You… did it?

You fought a Re-Gene and won.

Sure a few Wolfpack died, and you opened up a fresh set of scars but…

A wheezing groan gets your attention. You scramble backwards and get to your feet. Shit! It’s still alive. You hand flies back to your pistol. When it fails to move, you take a step closer.

Nudge it over with your foot. Half its face – her face, blue skin, tattoos and all, – is covered in blood. Probably not her own. That’s reserved for the bullet wounds in her abdomen, three hit the armor but it looks like only one got through. Her hand instinctively clutches at her side, pained breathing as she chokes up blood. Can see now her claws are just gloves, monofilaments. Not a combat class then. Another SCO? Suddenly your victory feels slightly less impressive.

Fuck.

This… This could have been you, couldn’t it? What really separates you in the end? That they didn’t dye your skin? That you ran away? You wince, can feel the blood running down your back. The pain taking on an otherworldly quality. That’s going to need stitches.

They always called you privileged. That being what you were was ‘special.’ But the only difference between the two of you is you’re the one standing. You’re the one holding a gun. She looks up at you as you raise the pistol, dim red eyes – optical inserts – focusing on you. Sorry sweetheart. Can’t risk anything getting back.

Your hand snaps back as you pull the trigger. Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck

You collapse to your knees, heaving, then vomiting into the pooling blood on the cement floor. Your left arm wobbling under you, threatening to give out. Down the aisle a glassy-eyed head stares back at you and you retch again. Fuck. Would these people have died if you hadn’t pushed them onwards?

No – no. You push the thought out of your head. It’s the Wolfpack. Thugs and mercenaries. Getting more of them killed is practically doing the world a favor.

You flinch, wipe at your mouth. Have to get used to it eventually. God, times like this almost make you wish for Ortega. She’d give you a hand up, smile and say something funny like, like… ‘guess they’re gonna need new jeans!’

...No, that was awful.

Fuck.

No more – no more distractions. Where’s…?

Fuck, Rosie!

You find her right where you parked her, perched behind a crate, watching the pathway to the back half of the warehouse. She looks up with alarm as you approach, finger tight on the trigger of her gun. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Nobody,” You reply, lacing your words with a telepathic push to trust you. “Jane, uh – mentioned you.”

“Jane!?” She looks around, “Don’t tell me she’s here too?”

“No. She’s not th–that dumb.” You snicker, a manic grin hidden under your mask. “Listen. Said you’re trustworthy.” You cough, grab at a box to hold yourself up as you favor your left arm. “You looking for a–a–a new employer?”

She looks at you, incredulous. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I n–need something out of Psychopathor’s gun. Help me. Get paid.” Again you add a mental push to your words. There’s no time to argue. Your arm is messed up, blood is running down your back – you need to get out of here before you pass out. Rosie needs to just trust you, and she needs to do it now.

Still, the damn woman hesitates.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Doesn’t matter. Won’t be fighting.”

She looks you up and down, not hiding her skepticism. “How’d that work out for you so far?”

Goddamnit Rosie, just get with the program already and fall in line.“I c–can be very generous. Ask Jane.”

Rosie hisses, lowers her gun. “Alright, fine. Psychopathor’s in the very back.”

Finally!

You nod, check your pistol. “Keep your guard up.”

The back of the warehouse opens up into a loading bay. The smoking wreck of a sixteen-wheeler stick halfway through a melted melt door, jamming the mess shut. Psychopathor towers over everyone in the center. His hair has gone grey since the last time you faced him, but he looks as pissed and terrifying as ever in his modded power armor. A canon shooting pulses of blazing white plasma is welded to his right hand.

You stick a hand out, holding Rosie back as you take in the chaos. Chittering voices brush the edge of your mind, focused on keeping up with something else. Psychopathor’s telepathic targeting matrix is only part of what makes the old monster so terrifying but it’s going to be your prize tonight.

A Re-Gene bursts out from behind the truck, opening his mouth and belching out a gout of fire that turns Psychopathor’s armor a glowing red. Where the Re-Gene’s mind should be you sense a cold void of thought. Farm technique, of course. For fighting someone telepathically sensitive.

Psychopathor laughs, a deep rumbling sound as he pounds his chest. “That all you got you fucking government toys!?” The Re-Gene is forced to go diving for cover as burst after burst of glowing plasma trails after. “That’s right! Run!”

Abruptly he swings his cannon around, catching someone you missed. A burst of plasma sends the blue-skinned figure crashing back against the ruined truck. Shit, that matrix is good. “I’ll tear your arms off and send them back to your handlers!”

Finger to your lips you jerk your thumb towards the ladder up to the second level. Running out into the middle of that is suicide. Rosie nods, following your lead. Pressing your backs to the wall the two of you circle around.

Rosie grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. You glare at her and she jerks her head towards the far corner. Follow the motion and – oh. Re-Gene. Four arms, sitting on the wall like some kind of human frog, still as stone.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

Both of you hold your breath, pressing against the wall. The Re-Gene isn’t looking your way, focused on the fight. You stare at her, willing her not to notice, not to turn her head. All at once every muscle in her arms and legs tenses and she leaps off the wall and onto Psychopathor’s back.

Rosie stifles a nervous laugh. “Damn. Lucky.”

You nod, watching the action. Ortega isn’t going to come save you this time if you fuck up. Just as well. You don’t need her. Soon you won’t need anybody. It’s almost a shame you’re having the Directive take out Psychopathor for you. Doing him in yourself would have been satisfying. 

The Re-Gene hooks it’s claws into Psychopathor’s armor as he swings back, trying to knock her off. With a calm precision she uses her other two arms to pry and pull at components of the armor sending them flying across the room.

Finally! The whole thing you’d been counting on.

She keeps hacking away, heedless to the lacerations Psychopathor’s spiked armor tears open with each wild movement. The bulk of the cannon pops loose, tossed overhand and rolling across the floor until it clatters against the far wall like an empty soda bottle.

You get as close as you can, Rosie following behind, watching your back, before dropping back down. Willing no one to notice, you pop open the panel. Almost burn your gloves off on the super heated metal, a heat haze radiating around it. Unhooking your prize from its slot requires cutting through a series of restraining wires. Wrapped around a featureless gray canister with a single glass pane revealing a quintet of tiny shriveled raisin looking things floating in a blue liquid.

You pry it free, clasping it in both hands. Instantly you’re buffeted with the full force of the presence inside. The pressure is enough to make you stagger.

Wincing you push back against it, try to reassure. It’s safe now. You’re getting it out of here. There’s a moment of confusion, a feeling of whispering thoughts brushing against Psychopathor, but it’s focus quickly turns back to you. It’s… unsettling. Feels like something crawling over your skin.

Several somethings.

Several _extremely_ excited somethings detecting a fellow telepath.

Rat brains networked together like… some kind of horrific rat-king monster. The chittering presence perks up at that thought. Likes the name. Ooookay. You’re not about to argue with it. “Rat-King it is then…”

Rosie shoots you a worried look. “What are you talking about? Is that it?”

“Nothing. And y–yeah.” You shake your head, quiet the Rat-King down. “Come on. Let’s beat it.” You glance back at her as the two of you head for the nearest exit. “Thanks. For, uh, watching my back.”

Rosie grins, makes a mock salute. “Hey, you come through on that promise and we’re even, got it?”

“Will do.”


	12. fix the damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sooner Jane can hand off the goods the sooner this job can be finished. You’re already looking at less than three weeks to showtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Savage]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyM8pMH2OF0)

##  fix the damage

Jane strolls down the street, refreshingly free of any aching muscles, bruised fingers, or hideous mawings. You’re going to have more than a few new scars to add to your collection after last night’s dumbassery. Fighting a Re-Gene, what were you thinking?

Still, there had been a rush to it. In making all those goons follow your commands. You were never meant for combat. Keep an eye out, spy on others, position people just so. But fuck that noise. You’ll do what you want, no one and nothing is going to stop you.

The Rat-King is a curious little prize too, but you’ll be glad to have it out of your room. The way it’s presence poked around everywhere… memories you’d rather not revisit. Jane, at least, is mercifully deaf to it’s inquiries. Hopefully once it’s installed in the suit, it’ll quiet down. Better understand it’s new purpose.

It’s just another tool after all.

You were too, once.

Maybe you still are?

Sometimes you have nightmares – paranoid delusions – you pray they’re delusions – that the Farm only pretended to let you escape. That this whole escapade is yet another experiment. Hell, maybe the first time was just an experiment too. That they’ve always known where you were. That every villain you ever faced was just another Farm toy tossed out to in the name of seeing what happened.

Well sorry fuckers, they won’t be seeing any replication of results this time.

Now where was Jane supposed to meet Dr. Mortum again? Jane sighs, mouth pressed into an irritated frown. Meeting in some back alley was so boringly cliché of the Doctor. You’ve come to expect more from her in the short time you’ve known her.

Still. Joes is closed during the day, so if it means handing off the Rat-King sooner, and keeping everyone on schedule… Well, we all have to make sacrifices. – Ah, here we go.

Jane turns the corner, crossing her arms. No Dr. Mortum here. Is this the right alleyway? They all look the same. God this feels so dumb. Jane takes a few steps further in, checking the corners as she goes. Any brilliant mad scientists of questionable morality hiding behind this dumpster?

No?

Goddamnit.

Jane mills about in the alley, crossing and uncrossing her arms. Approaching the window of an empty storefront, she frowns at her reflection. Jane’s a lot like you in some ways beyond just the superficial. No family. No friends. That you know of anyway.

Even if she did, would they recognize her? See you behind her eyes in place of the person they once knew? What did Jane used to be like, anyway? She frowns, running a finger along the glass. Dusty.

Look back up and there’s Dr. Mortum behind Jane.

Holding a gun.

To Jane’s back.

Oh god fucking damnit.

“Dr. Mortum,” Jane sighs, a tired look towards the Doctor’s reflection.

“Now, ma chérie, would you care to explain how you acquired this delightful trinket so soon after Psychopathor so conveniently got himself taken in by the Special Directive?”

She knows about the Directive? Our little scientist is very well informed, isn’t she? Cold metal presses against the back of Jane’s head, setting her heart pumping. Informed and paranoid.

Good. She’s not stupid then.

You’re sure it’s a very fancy gun, but she’s standing far too close to Jane. Deeply doubt she’s prepared to pull the trigger on her ‘chérie’ either. Bet her trigger discipline needs work.

“Well, ma chérie? I am waiting.” She’s looking at Jane’s face in the window instead of at the back of her head. Amateur.

Wordlessly you step back under Mortum’s gun arm, raised elbow sweeping back to lock her gun arm. Grab her hand and twist the thumb, catch the gun as she drops it and shove her backwards to the ground. Jane finishes the motion with a smooth turn, bringing the weapon level with Dr. Mortum’s face. “I don’t enjoy being threatened, Doctor.”

“That hurt, ma chérie.”

“Good.” Jane’s smile is grim, without humor. “Now, you want to explain why you thought you could point a gun at me?”

“Would it be fair to point out that now you’re the one directing the gun at me?” She stares down the barrel with a disturbing curiosity. Like she’s not sure whether Jane would really pull the trigger.

You’re not sure either.

“I am very much aware, doc.” Jane doesn’t lower the gun, flexes her finger over the trigger guard. “Start talking.”

“Psychopathor was taken down. By the Special Directive.” Mortum can’t stop looking back at the gun in her face. Not used to being on the receiving end, sweetheart? Too bad. “And now here you are… with the most vital component of his signature weapon.”

“So… what? You decided you could point a gun at me and ask if I’m Directive?”

“No, no,” She raises her hands to her head in assurance. “I know you are human ma chérie. I was… just concerned. Perhaps. That you were being blackmailed.”

“Concerned? For – for me?” Jane blinks, letting the gun drop.

Mortum smiles, relief coloring her face. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, considering you just pointed a gun at my head not a minute ago, call me skeptic.” Jane arcs an eyebrow, a wry smile twisting her lips.

“Well! Clearly that was a mistake!” Mortum claps her hands together, eager to please. Amazing what a gun will do for a relationship. “What do you say, shall we forget about this little incident?”

Jane drops her gun arm to her side, offering the other out to pull Mortum to her feet. “How about knocking a couple grand off the price then?”

Mortum has the decency to look abashed as she shakes her head. “I think not. Not unless you want something substandard.”

“Hrm.” Jane clicks the safety on the gun and shoves it in her purse. “Then I’m keeping the gun. Consider it payment for learning a valuable lesson.”

She dusts down her jacket and pants. Carefully adjusts her hair. “And that lesson would be, ‘stick to being a scientist’ I presume?”

A cold grin spreads on Jane’s face as she crosses her arms. “No.”

“No?”

“The lesson is ‘Don’t. Fuck. With. Jane.’”

“Consider the lesson learned.” Mortum nods sagely. “I offer my sincerest apologies.”

Jane bites her cheek to stop the smirk on her face. Sliding a hand back into her purse she pulls out the narrow grey cylinder that houses the Rat-King. Feel nothing but metal, slightly cooler than the air. Headblind people really do live in a different world from you, don’t they? One you can only ever visit like this.

Mortum’s attention is arrested by the tube as Jane hands it over. “My employer expects the best.”

She takes it, running her fingers over the material. Tsks at a scratch along the top before slipping it into a pocket. “Ah, your elusive boss. When do I get to meet them?”

“Hah!” Jane shakes her head, “You should count your lucky stars it wasn’t them you pointed a gun at today.” Could you ever trust Mortum with your identity? Not likely. Too connected. Too curious.

“A good point, ma chérie” Mortum chuckles to herself. “Don’t suppose you’ll ever let me live that one down?”

“Maybe.” Jane shrugs, returning the smile with a wink. “Keep to schedule, and we’ll see what happens.”

“Seeing that last payment would be a good start.”

“I told you,” The warmth drops from Jane’s demour. If Mortum still thinks she can fast talk you after all this, she’s in for a rude surprise. “You’ll get the last installment when you deliver the goods. _Not a second before_.”

“What is this, ma chérie, don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“I will grant, that is perhaps a wise attitude to take in this business.”


	13. no way to be alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One moment you're having an evening brooding in your own misery, the next everything's gone to hell in entirely new and unexpected ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emetophobia
> 
> [[Present Past Future]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JAjQFxf_8s)

##  no way to be alive

A few days later and you find yourself back in one of your new haunts. The diner is a bustle of noise and chatter. You have to wrap your song tight around you to keep the incessant buzz down to a bearable roar. These chain places are always tourist-trap dumps and while your puppet found the place originally, you’ve taken a liking to it. No chance of running into any old faces here. No old memories to jump out from behind a wall at you.

Memory of gunfire. Psychopathor issues his challenge and there you are again, under the car. Ghost pain lancing through your leg, but– that’s not how things went this time around the wheel, is it? 

Not… Not exactly anyway. You got out this time. Under your own power. Got the telepathic targeting matrix the suit needs to control the nanovores. Some kind of self-appointed Rat-King. A fellow victim of science. Even made sure that Jane’s contact, Rosie, got out unharmed. And what did a night of victories cost you, really?

Run your hands up your arms, even under the sleeves you can feel the dulled fire of fresh scars, still healing from where lines of red had been raked across. Matching lines, stitched shut, run down your back. Still too fresh for comfort. Fighting a combat-class Re-Gene had been a stupid, pointless move but… 

You drink your water to hide the smile.

Fought and lived, bitch.

This time anyway.

Even at the top of your game during the old days you would never have dared to tangle with a fight like that. It is true, that you’re far stronger – telepathically – then you were back then, but it’s more than that.

There’s a power in not caring whether you live or die.

Or, put another way: in recognizing you’re already dead. Scraped off the asphalt and poured into a hollow mold of whatever might once have been. It was a stupid dream to think you could ever be anything more than an object. Human beings will anthropomorphize anything. You weren’t special.

You shove a forkful of chocolate cake into your mouth as you stare past the empty seat across from you. You’re not sure which is more unhealthy, the chocolate cake or indulging these negative thoughts. Either way, who cares?

You’d been trying not to think about Ortega for years, and now everything was trickling back. Every painful, wasted, memory.

The people you thought were your friends abandoned you. But of course they would. It should have been transparently obvious to anyone that knew you back then that you were messed up. They were probably all glad to be rid of you. You bet Steel threw a party.

And Ortega… if anyone was going to care about you it would have been Ortega. How many times had you bled for each other? Covered one another? How many nights holding the other up? Her mom had practically adopted you.

But no. None of it had meant anything in the end apparently.

What you felt meant nothing.

To anyone.

You self-proclaimed caretakers had only twisted the wounds further. Opened up more. It’s what you deserved, honestly. For what you had done. For mistaking this body as your own. For lying to everyone, every day, for years. Good people don’t do things like that.

You put down the fork and push up your sunglasses with the palm of your hands, pressing against your eyes. You’re not human. You don’t have feelings. What do you care? You don’t, that’s what.

The Directive spent five years making sure you’d never forget it again.

Well, guess who got out and is coming back for another verse, bastards? You’ll put off killing yourself just long enough to see the Farm burned to the ground, and if you have to take out a few old friends along the way, what do you care? They were never really your friends, never really knew you, and Ariadne is seven years dead.

You take a breath. You’re fine. You’re in control. You don’t feel anything. Pick up your fork again, stab it into the cake hard enough it makes a ‘doink’ sound against the plate.

You’re just the wraith, come to take– not justice exactly. You’d have to be human to be wronged; to have some sort of right to exist at all in order to seek justice. But you can get revenge. For you, for the rest of their tools, for all the people the Directive and their little game of spiderweb across the country has done to twist and warp and ruin everything it touches.

You’ve been free for almost two years now and you still have nightmares of being back there, footsteps echoing down the hall in the middle of the night, piercing white light blinding your eyes –

“Ariadne? Ariadne is that really you?”

what the fuck

The voice drops even lower, almost reverential. “I can’t believe it. It really is you.”

You jump in your seat, whipping your head around the room. Who the hell would be using that name with– with that voice? A woman standing some distance down the aisle. Obnoxious white suit. Her hair is cropped short and lines frame a face more weathered than you remember but–

You press your shades tight against your face. “Or-ortega?” you whisper, eyes wide, staring at her. You shift in your seat. Can you escape from here? Ortega’s between you and the exit. How thick is the glass? Can you jump through the window? It’s not happening. It ’s not happening. There’s no way you can move fast enough.

You’re trapped.

Again.

fuck fuck fuck

She tenses, not breaking eye-contact. She’s looking at you like she’s seen a ghost. Like you aren’t real. Or too real, or maybe you’re just projecting onto an unreadable mind just like before. She abandoned you. To bastards who wouldn’t even let you die. You throat is so tight it hurts, and there’s a pressure under your eyes.

Take a breath. Stay in control. Put down your fork. Don’t acknowledge the cake sitting upside-down on your lap. “W–wow,” you breath out, “how – how long has it been?” You watch as she moves towards you. You’re trapped. You can’t escape. “A – A decade?”

Ortega’s face flickers through emotions faster than you can read them, out of practice with her as you are. God, she still looks just like you remember her. Older, sure, but she’s still Julia Ortega. Still that fuzz of static masking her thoughts. She sits down across from you in the booth, hands on the table. “Ariadne, it’s been seven years.”

She says it like she’s counted every day.

“It–it–it feels… longer than that,” you hazard.

This can’t be real.

This isn’t how you were supposed to meet again. If ever.

You aren’t ready. You  are _not_ ready for this.

There’s a pained laugh from Ortega and she hides her eyes behind a hand as she rubs her forehead. “You’re right there. Dios mio, it’s really you, isn’t it? Ariadne?”

You look away from her, focus on putting your ruined cake back on the plate. Maybe you should have dyed your hair.

“Dyed your–?” Ortega’s voice is sharp, and she’s look right at you. “You culo, were you  trying to avoid me?”

Shit. You said that out loud. You swallow back a wave of nausea as you look up. “Was – was it that obvious?”

“Fucking pendeja!” Ortega spits, face twisted in an anger that makes you shrink back in your seat. “I thought you were dead! Where… Ari, where have you been?”

“Ortega, I–”

“I spent seven years thinking I caused your death!”

“Ortega–”

Her eyes are wet, face red. “We held a goddamn funeral for you and Anathema!”

Anger boils up in your throat, and you slam your hand down on the table hard enough to make your fork jump. “D–d–do you think I  wanted what happened to me!?”

Ortega freezes and fixes in on you. “What? What happened?” The sharp shift from anger to… to whatever this is, is throwing you off. “Ariadne, what happened?”

“What do you mean ‘what happened?’ You were there Ortega!” There’s people staring at the two of you. Fuck them.

“There was–” Ortega falters for a moment, “–an explosion, I got knocked out. Chen had to fill me in afterwards. The military ended up bombing the building. Ari, please, what happened to you?”

You cling to the anger churning in your stomach. “Why do you even care? You abandoned me!”

She reels back in her seat as if you slapped her. “Abandoned you?” When she talks again her voice is barely a whisper, “Ariadne, they told me you died. On the way to the hospital. Steel  saw you get loaded into an ambulance.”

“Steel said that?” Choke back something between a laugh and sob. “And you believed him?”

“They burned all the bodies. In case it was some kind of gas. Ari, just want kind of man do you think Steel is!?”

You hug yourself, sinking down into your chair. “He– he– he hated me, you know that.”

“Ari…” There’s a pained look on Ortega’s face as she furrows her eyebrows. “…he doesn’t hate you.” Ortega breathes out a long sigh, pulls a handful of napkins from the dispenser and presses them her face before continuing. “What happened to you, Ariadne?” You know that twitch in her hands, she’s holding herself back from reaching for you.

How can she not know?

_ How can she not know? _

The pain in her voice, her face… The anger made sense, but this? What is this? Why is she acting like this? Ortega is the one that turned you back over to the Directive. That’s what… they… told you…?

You can taste the bile in the back of your mouth.

You slump further back in your seat.

“I– I can’t talk about it.” You finally get out. You hold up a limp hand to stop Ortega from whatever she was going to say. “There was a reason that I– that I couldn’t join the Rangers.” You watch Ortega’s face from the corner of your eye, there’s no flash of understanding. No fleeting guilty look. Just… frustration and concern.

“Ariadne?”

Is Ortega being honest? Did you… did you really misjudge the situation? When they first told you Ortega turned you in, you refused to believe it. That wasn’t her. She wouldn’t do that to you. But… as weeks turned into months into years… It made more sense. No one ever came. Ever looked. Ortega moved on. Found other people.

Replaced you.

You know, like you do when you lose an object.

“Whatever… Chen thinks he saw, it’s not a hospital they took me too.” You spit out. “They– they faked my death and then…” You choke. Grab the edge of the table to stop your hands from shaking.

It’s not too late yet. You could… you could stop. Come clean. Tell Ortega everything right now. Or okay, well, almost everything. Nothing else has to happen. Call off the whole plan. 

But–

Even if – if – Ortega didn’t just… turn you over, she was still a Ranger. Still a tool of the very system that committed the original sin of creating you in the first place. You can not – should not – trust her. She is your enemy. She was always your enemy, really. You were just too stupid and naive to understand back then.

You shake your head. Breath in. Hold. Breath out. You’re in control. “Look, Ortega… once I, uh–” You can’t stop the wince, can already see Ortega’s anger softening into worry, “–escaped. I… I had to keep a low profile. So… so I’m retired now, I guess.”

“Ari… why didn’t you come to us? To me?”

You try on a grin, it feels fake. “The Los Diablos Rangers aren’t exactly ‘low profile’ Jul–Ortega.”

“We could have done something, Ariadne. Taken action. Who did this to you?”

Knife twist. You can’t trust her. Can’t trust anyone. This is another trap. “Ortega, by the time I could have gotten anything to you, I was already out, it was over, so…”

She leans over the table towards. In a harsh whisper she says, “if you still need to hide then it sure doesn’t sound like it’s over!”

“Well, maybe I just didn’t want your help?” You spit back before you can think about what you’re saying. “Maybe I didn’t want to put my best friend in danger?” 

“Ari.” Ortega’s expression is unreadable. “We’re the Rangers, remember? Danger is kind of our thing?”

“Maybe I wanted to protect you for once, Ortega?” You throw out there. “These people are f–f–fucking dangerous.”

Either Ortega is lying to your face in which case she can go to hell, or even worse: she’s telling the truth and letting her get close again is only going to put her in danger.

From the Directive.

And soon from you.

It doesn’t matter, your only course of action is the same.

“Ari…” She can’t hold herself back any longer, you quickly pull your hand away before it gets trapped under hers. “I have spent… the past seven years trying to come to terms with being responsible your’s and Anathema’s deaths.”

“I’m– I’m sorry.” Again, speaking without thinking. This isn’t  what you wanted. She wasn’t supposed to still care. You had been forgotten. Disposed of. But that’s not how she’s… Ortega can be sneaky but she’s not that good of an actor.

“I– I never wanted–” You pinch your nose, rub your eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.” Even as you say it, you don’t know if you mean it or not. You expected she’d be upset over Anathema, but.. this is your trauma. Give it back.

Ortega reaches for your hand again and this time you don’t pull away. Let hers rest over yours. “Did you really think I’d just… what? Move on and forget about you?”

That gets a bitter laugh out of you. Stare down at your cake, don’t look at her face. That’s exactly what happened, wasn’t it Ortega?

…Wasn’t it?

Her hand tightens over yours, and there’s a pain in your chest, like strings wound to the point of breaking. “You’re my best friend, Ariadne.”

The two of you sit there in silence.

You study your cake, sitting on the plate upside down now. There’s still smears of chocolate icing on your jeans. There’s an itching in your nose as your eyes water. You don’t dare move. Don’t dare call attention to it.

Ortega breaks the silence first: “I’m so glad you’re alive.” It’s whisper, barely audible.

You manage to bite back the words on your tongue before you can say something snide like ‘that makes one of us.’ You don’t want to seem too dysfunctional or she’ll never leave you be. Or maybe she would. You’re not sure which would feel worse. Force a strained smile on your face instead.

She smiles back at you and you find your own feels slightly less fake.

“Will you at least keep in touch now?” She says.

You shouldn’t but–

“Okay.” You whisper. 

“Actually…” There’s a hollow laugh from Ortega. “This almost feels like divine providence.” Now there’s a look you recognize. How she glances at the ceiling, gears spinning.

You tense up, pull your hand out from under hers.“W–what?”

Ortega tilts her head as she looks back at you. “I mean, you are still a telepath, right?”

You look away, frowning. “W–what kind of question is that?”

“It’s just, there’s this friend of mine who’s in some trouble…”

Oh.

You let yourself smile. “Just a friend?” This is too familiar. Painfully so. Ortega has always had a lot of… friends. And always been nosy. It’s a welcome change of subject at least. 

She must have picked up what you meant because her eyes widen and she shakes her head. “It’s not like that!” She laughs, “They’re just a friend, really.”

“Uh-huh. Sure he is.”

“She, actually.” Ortega shrugs.

You blink. Oh. Huh. “So – what’s the problem?”

“I’d rather not talk about it in public.” Ortega glances around the diner. “Do you mind… hearing her out? Weighing in?”

You straighten up. “What? Why?”

“This is kind of a delicate situation and–”

“Why me?” Seven years… that’s longer than you ever even knew each other.

Ortega rubs the back of her neck. “It’s exactly the kind of thing I’ve missed having you around for.” Her face is like a gut stab. “And… I trust you, you know?” Twist the knife, why don’t you Ortega.

“Okay.”

Wait.

Your heart freezes. What did you just say? 

“Really?” She lights up. “Great, let me just call her and see if they’re free.”

“Wait– what? Right now?” But Ortega is already dialing a number on her insulated brick of a phone. This is a mistake. Why did you say yes, you fucking idiot?

Ortega was mad with you, sure, but also, sad, and also... happy? And how do you feel? You don’t know – no, trick question, you don’t feel anything. Are nothing, feel nothing. You watch Ortega talk on the phone, her free hand drawing circles on the table. You don’t miss her, so why does your chest hurt so bad? 

Maybe…

Maybe you can use this to get some intel on what Ortega’s up to these days. Maybe even the Rangers in general. You hadn’t banked on being able to get insider information, but maybe you can make this work. You just have to be able to play the game.

Be a cuckoo.

Can you do it? Can you even remember what your old self was like? Sometimes it feels like the only things you remember are the worst parts.

“Okay, great, we’ll meet you there.” Ortega snaps her phone shut as the screen goes dark. She glances back at you as while puts it away. “Are you still eating? Do you mind heading out now?”

“Still charging blindly ahead, I see.” You poke the ruins of your cake with your fork.

Ortega winces. “Sorry, this is just something that’s been eating away at me for, like, two weeks.”

“I’ll try to help, but… whatever this is; I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

“Hey, you did a lot more than just punch people as Sidestep.”

You drop the fork, push the plate away from you. “Sidestep is dead.”

She frowns at that, but doesn’t have a response.

“W–well, um, no point in – in making her wait, I guess.” You shift in your seat and start fishing around for you wallet.

Ortega puts up a hand, “It’s fine, I’ve got it. I owe you.” She tosses a ten  a nd twenty onto the table between the two of you. You glance between her and the money. You know what? Fine, whatever, she wants to cover it go ahead. It’s her fault the cake was ruined anyway. A lot of things are her fault.

As the two of you shuffle out of the booth and stand up, Ortega steps towards you and in one continuous motion pulls you into a hug.

You go rigid, hands at your sides as she holds you. A ghost of pain runs down your back from your still-healing injuries. Should have expected this. Should have evaded, or prepared or something or–

“Uh–” There’s a pressure behind your eyes again and your throat hurts. “Or–ortega?

“Sorry, I–” She lets you go with a smile, “I couldn’t do this when you were sitting down.”

“Give– give a girl some warning first, okay?”

“Don’t disappear on me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[what will you make of me, when i bite down?]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703554)


	14. i wanna know how you stay you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ortega's favor isn't what you expected, you're going to have to think on your feet to get out of this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Delicate, Petite & Other Things I’ll Never Be]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCoqjFbjxns)

## i wanna know how you stay you

“Have you seen the new building yet? They just finished it, oh, two years ago now? The Marshal program is getting a lot more money these days than it used to. Or...” Ortega laughs, she hasn’t noticed you’ve stopped following her yet. “Maybe Steel is just that much better at me at getting funding.”

You were an idiot. Of course this was a trap.

“Ariadne?” Ortega turns back to you as gawp at the building in front of the two of you. The Taxi already gone. You could run but that’ll just make it worse. 

“Ortega–” you hiss through your teeth, “you d–d–didn’t mention your friend was part of the Rangers.”

The brick of a building in front of the two of you is like some modern throwback to brutalist architecture. All reinforced cement with thick mirrored glass windows. Should have goddamn motherfucking known. Shit.

She peers at you, the smile on her face drifting away. “I didn’t want to get into detail at a diner, you know? Why, is that a problem?”

You bite your lip and fold your arms. You need to stay in control. Don’t panic. Ortega doesn’t have any reason to suspect anything. Don’t give her one. “I just – I didn’t think to expect it. Did–didn’t I mention being retired?” You take a breath, finish speaking through gritted teeth. “Trying to – to keep a low profile, even?”

“Ari…” There’s a flash of worry on Ortega’s face. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, shit. “It’ll be fine. If anything happens, you can always come to me. I promise you.”

She doesn’t know what she’s saying. What she’s promising.

“Talk is cheap, you know.” You smooth down your sweatshirt, push up your sunglasses. You take a half-step towards Ortega and the building entrance and then waver, panic coursing through your limbs. “I… do I look okay?”

A smile pulls up on Ortega’s face, “You look like you’re drowning in that sweatshirt of yours. So… just like old times really.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “F-f-fuck you, Ortega.” She’s still a smug ass, apparently. That hasn’t changed.

She laughs, “Yeah? Sure.” She pushes the door open, gesturing you inside. “After you, Ms. Becker.”

Breath in. Hold. Breath out. Into the den of vipers you go.

You pocket your sunglasses once you’re inside, with no small amount of regret. The extra layer of protection would be welcome right now, but you need to look normal. Or, well, as normal as a depressed thirty-something has-been trans woman washout can be.

Following Ortega through the building is a balancing game of managing your own nerves. Anxiety and nausea clawing at your throat. The half-memories from riftling through Argent’s mind aren’t helping. Drab stonework brings to mind visions of a web of wiring hiding underneath. A picture frame you can remember hiding a security camera. Jamais vu, you might call it. You’ve seen it all before, but not as yourself, and not quite like this. 

The secretary smiles at the two of you as Ortega waves, doesn’t stop you for questioning. She knows and trusts Ortega, you pick up on that immediately. You should be relieved that she's not Sarah, the old secretary. The Rangers knowing is going to be bad enough. You don’t need word getting out that ‘Sidestep’ is back from the dead. Hard not to wonder about her now. Did Sarah go back to college like she kept complaining she would? Get that absolutely useless art degree? When did she quit?

It doesn’t matter.

Why do you even care?

You shouldn’t.

The guard doesn’t even lift his head as the two of you walk through the security scanners. So you still come up as ‘normal’ that’s good. You wrap your song tight around your mind regardless, no sense risking any sort of trap.

Security guards. That’s new. To what end? Anyone dumb enough to attack the HQ would just mulch rent-a-cops.

You follow Ortega into the elevator, watch as she punches in a security code, 3-5-6-2. Different than what you remember from Argent. Interesting. Did they change the code after the attack or is it a regular thing? The old HQ had nothing like this.

You stick your hands into your pockets and rock back and forth on your heels, chewing the inside of your cheek. Ortega has no reason to suspect anything. She’s just… being Ortega, trying to drag you back into her life. What else did you expect out of her? You’ll do her this last favor and then… you don’t know. Lose the cellphone you gave her the number for. It was a burner anyway.

“You okay there, Ari?” She side-eyes you as she punches a floor number.

You wince, “Y-yeah, I’m fine.” Change the subject, quick. “So. I – I can’t believe you’re not the marshal anymore. That right?”

“A lot of things changed after the whole Heartbreak fiasco. A lot of people died – friends died… I thought you had too.”

“Heartbreak? W–wait. You mean… oh.”

She frowns, and you can watch her face through the mirrored wall, even as neither of you look at each other. “I don’t know who came up with the name.”

You force a laugh, “It’s kind of melodramatic, isn’t it?” You thumb the lining of your pockets, focus on the floor. Don’t look at the reflection of yourself in the mirror. A pale ghost, disheveled with sunken eyes and unkempt hair.

Seven years has been long enough to see you graduate from delinquent teen to sullen transient. 

“Maybe.” Ortega still doesn’t look at you. “Anyway, I couldn’t take the responsibility anymore. Knowing if I had made a different call you both might still be alive? So… I tried to retire, but it didn’t agree with me either.” God, she sounds so tired. Old. “I’m kind of jealous actually.” She adds as the elevator comes to a stop.

You furrow your brow. “Jealous? For what?”

Ortega leans forward into a security camera as it scans her face. “Being able to retire?”

That gets a weak laugh from you. “You… you really shouldn’t be.” Nausea churns in your stomach again. Does she really no idea? “It’s – it’s nothing to be proud of.” God knows you’re not doing this because you want to. It’s simply the only option you have left.

Well not unless you’re going to finally just–

The doors hiss open and Ortega steps through, “Ari, you always made me proud. There’s no shame in retiring.”

You wipe at your eyes, a pressure making your nose itch, as you follow Ortega out and down a hallway. You don’t dare say anything.

Your… memory? Impression of Argent’s memory? Has been fading, faster as you try to conjure it up again, but you think this must be the fourth floor conference room you’re heading towards and–

One wall of the conference room is a tinted pane-glass window. Standing with her back turned towards you both is Lady Argent, blue skinsuit matching her silver skin, her hair, the same reflective metallic color, is pulled back into a ponytail.

The woman whose body you stole and sent on a rampage through the middle of a mall after stealing one of the most dangerous and illegal weapons locked up in the Ranger vault.

Oh no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[no reason for suspicion of me]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718809/chapters/49220582)


	15. how long has this been going on?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all that things have changed at Ranger HQ during your absence, some things are eternal. Ortega’s propensity to make your life difficult, for example.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emetophobia
> 
> [[I Might Disappear]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8zzp5FeMP8)

##  how long has this been going on?

On the other side, across from Argent, in his own blue Skinsuit the man you recognize to be Herald looks up as the two of you enter. Seeing him in person for the first time, he looks young enough to still get carded at bars. Can’t help but feel a tinge of pride seeing he still sports a hint of the black eye you gave him in Argent’s body. As soon as you look at him, Herald’s face lights up like it’s suddenly Christmas morning.

After a cold second of staring back, his face reddens and he coughs into his hand, looking away from you.

A horse-shoe shaped conference table takes up most of the room.  At the head of which is slouched Marshal Steel, drumming his fingers against the armrest of his chair. Even without his power armor on, the weight from his mods makes his seat sag underneath him. When he locks eyes with you, you’d swear your heart stopped for a second. You can pick up his suspicion, even as his face remains blank. Nothing’s changed there.

What has changed is who’s missing. Neither of them surprises exactly but–

No Anathema. An assembly of Rangers without her? A dull ache twists your guts. Normally you try not to think about her. Her last moments – it wasn’t fair. She deserved better.

No Sentinel either. Reading about his retirement had been a surprise at first, but also a relief. Wind powers like his would have been a pain in the ass to face in a fight. Supposed to be enjoying retirement up in the mountains, away from civilization. Good. He can stay up there. 

That makes both transgender Rangers gone. Some of the only people who knew your own status. Were either of these new Rangers trans? Unlikely. Seven years had improved the public’s opinion on trans folk considerably, but the media would have still sniffed something like that out and had a field day about ‘model minorities’ with it.

Another reason to avoid having paperwork, frankly. 

Ortega claps her hands together, and you break eye-contact. “Sorry I asked Angie to call everyone in like this.” She points you towards a chair, “take a seat Ari, we’ll explain everything.”

You take your hands out of your pockets, glance around the room again. Any hidden restraints on the chairs? Poison gas vents? You carefully sit down and breathe a sigh of relief as nothing proceeds to happen. Ortega sits down next to you, and Herald takes a seat across from you both, the smile beaming on his face matches his thoughts. Oh… oh this kid is going to be a trial, you can already tell.

You glance back at Steel, he’s looking between you and Ortega. You hold up your hand in a weak wave. “Hello Chen. It’s… it’s– uh, been a while.”

Steel leans forward, stops drumming his fingers. “So. You’re not dead after all.” His tone is dry, empty of any pretense of warmth. “I had assumed Argent must have misheard.”

You wince. “Ortega can fill you in. It’s, um – it’s a long story.” 

Steel’s merciless gaze lands on Ortega again. “Ortega has a lot of things she needs to fill me in about.”

Ortega frowns at that, “Later, alright?” She glances over towards Lady Argent, who has yet to acknowledge either one of you. “That’s not why I brought Ari here.”

Steel crosses his arms, his chair grinding in protest as he leans back. “Agreed.”

Herald clears his throat with a cough and folds his hands neatly in front of him. “I for one am ecstatic to have your help,” he looks directly at you and you sink down into the chair. He pauses for a second and then adds, slightly more timid, “And, uh, that you’re alive obviously.” He gives you a nervous grin and god, you figured the boy scout act was for the press, but he’s the real deal, isn’t he? His mind practically radiates it. “Charge always spoke highly of you, and now that we have Sidestep back in–“

You throw up a hand, enough is enough. “Just– just Ariadne. Please. Sidestep was years ago.” So was Ariadne, but you don’t exactly have anything else to call you.

“Of course, Ariadne.” Herald’s grin is wide and flawless, and it’s all you can do not to roll your eyes.

Herald hasn’t been on the scene for long but there’s already been rumors churning about grooming him to be the next Marshal once he has some years of experience under his belt. Sure he can fly and supposedly has superhuman durability but it feels like you hear about him holding press conferences and grand openings more than any actual, well, being a hero.

And then there’s Argent. Who still hasn’t said anything, hasn’t turned to look at you. There’s no way she would recognize you. Right? She never saw you.

Right???

Ortega takes the silence as permission to start. “I know we all have other things to do, and I know I should respect your retirement Ariadne, but we can’t trust anyone else with this.”

A knot twists in your stomach, and you have to stop yourself from sinking any further in your chair. You’ve got a bad feeling about this. “It’s… it’s that bad, is it?” You try to smile, but it doesn’t feel right, fake. As fake as you sitting here in this chair while Lady Argent stares out the window.

Herald rubs his arm. Bruise under there too? So much for that durability. “You’re, uh, you’re not wrong.” He looks towards Steel.

Steel purses his lips, staring you down. You swallow the lump in your throat and stare back.

He relents. “Three weeks ago, an unknown assailant was able to manipulate Lady Argent into stealing an extremely dangerous item.” He pauses, still looking at you. Forcing yourself to meet his gaze is getting increasingly uncomfortable. “Argent doesn’t remember much, but got the impression this wasn’t one of the usual villains.”

You stare down at the table in front of you. They’ve got you. They’ve fucking got you. Why the whole pageantry? Just kill you already. Fucking bastards. They’ll drag you back to the Farm, and that’ll be it. The rest of your life as – as an object. If you’re lucky; they’ll just kill you.

Where did you fuck up? What did Argent pick up on? God, you’re so fucking stupid.

Nausea again.

“It was one of our own.” You look up. Lady Argent has turned away from the window, staring right at you, voice hard. She looks you over, sizing you up. You keep waiting for the moment of recognition, the gasp, the widening eyes, or the snarl, the sharpened teeth. But no, nothing, just silence and then: “I can’t remember much, but that’s the impression I got. It was someone that was supposed to be on our side.”

You blink. “W-wait– a hero?” How on earth did you leave that impression? Some lingering guilt?

You don’t feel guilty. You don’t feel anything. She’s the enemy. They all are. 

Argent scowls as she sits down, arms folded over her chest as she leans back in the chair. “We can’t just bring in any of the psychics we know. It could be anybody. And you, well,” She snorts, “You’re a perfect nobody.” There’s a pause, then her scowl deepens and she waves a hand. “Well, not exactly a nobody. Ortega always talked you up.”

You frown at that, and glance at Ortega. “…Ortega likes to exaggerate.” What has she been telling people about you? “My powers really aren’t nearly strong enough to go against someone that could… control you like that.” You frown. What was the lie you always went with back in the old days? “I can read surface thoughts, get an edge in a fight. That’s about it.”

“You’re a lot stronger than you think you are.” Ortega oh-so-helpfully reassures you, a smile on her face.

God, you could just jump out the window right now. Possessing Argent was a one-and-done thing. Something you’ve done countless times at this point. Or it was supposed to be.

And now? Here she is, in front of you. Her face a mask but you can pick up a hint of what roils underneath and– You rub your eyes, try to look exasperated to hide the nausea, the self-disgust. “If you say so.”

They really don’t suspect you of anything, do they? You’re just the ghost of an old friend, come back at just the right time in their hour of need. Turn them down and they’ll find someone else. Expose you. Stop you.

Why would you feel guilty? Lady Argent is the enemy.

You put your hand down on the table, avoid looking at her, your other rests on your lap, tracing patterns on your leg. “If… Lady Argent is – um, okay with it… I could try to clear up the memories. There might be some more clues she can’t remember just yet.”

Plant clues more like. Frame someone, more like.

Argent yanks her hand away from the table, the shock on face quickly gone under a hard mask. She nods, “Fine. If that’s what it takes.” She scowls as she fidgets in her seat. Brushes her hair back, “Let’s do it then.”

“W-w-wait – wait – hang on,” you wave your hands, “I’m going to need time to–to–to prepare myself. I…” How do you phrase this? “I haven’t used this… uh, technique in years.”

This is going to be a project alright. Not like you needed another one. You’ll need a plausible scapegoat to send them after, some plausible clues Argent can latch on to… A whole other mental state to work yourself into so that she won’t make a connection to your previous attack… Oh god, this is crazy.

It would be so easy to just… jump out the window. They’d never stop you in time. How high up are you? Three stories? You bite the inside of your cheek and wince. No – not yet. You can still weasel your way out of this.

You realize Steel is eyeing you again and run a hand through your hair to make it look like your thinking. Finally, Steel nods. “That’s probably wise.”

“I’ll need… I don’t know, maybe a week, or two?” Stare up at the ceiling light, reviewing your schedule. Your time frame is tight enough as it is. “And also…” You glance back at Ortega, she’s still smiling at you, damnit. “Can I have Ortega there? I can’t read her, so it’s not like she’ll influence anything.” You try to smile back at her.

You can’t trust any of them, but you absolutely don’t want to be alone in a room with Argent. There’s plenty of worse things than death. You should know.

What is Argent capable of, anyway? She feels pain, but doesn’t get hurt. She can morph her hands into razor-sharp blades, although you couldn’t figure it out when you possessed her. Is her silver skin some kind of metallic coating or is she like that to the bone? Not to mention she can see electrical wiring through walls and into the infrared.

You need Ortega.

Argent and her exchange looks, but what exactly it means goes over your head. Another little reminder that life went on without you. “If you don’t mind, Angie?” Ortega asks.

Argent looks between the two of you. “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But try and get ready quick.”

Steel has a notebook open in front of him –when did that happen?– and writes something down. “Very well, I believe that concludes today’s business. You’re all dismissed.”

You sag in your chair, and close your eyes. Thank fucking god.

Ortega gets up to talk to Argent, Herald sits in his seat looking like a lost child. This is your chance to get the fuck out. You push your seat back and slip out into the hallway, tracing your path back to the elevator.

“Wait–” You freeze and so does your heart. Turn around and Steel is walking down the hallway towards you. “I’ll walk you out.” What expression is that on his face? Try to brush his mind and you get… regret? That can’t be right.

The floor creaks under him, footsteps heavy. Did his legs get replaced with artificial ones? There had been a rumor about it. Something about his left arm seems different too. Damn, the years haven’t exactly been kind to Chen either it seems.

Not that you feel bad for the bastard.

Chen clears his throat as he walks alongside. “So.”

“So.” You agree.

Steel steps in front of you. “So, you survived.”

“That’s debatable” You don’t smile. There’s no point in pretending around Steel. All he cares about is his precious Rangers and making sure you know your place is outside of that.

“Now you’re back.” Steel doesn’t move. Would he stop you if you tried to pass him?

You grit your teeth. “I didn’t choose to be.” True in more ways than one. “Ortega tricked me into this. If I’d known–”

“Then you wouldn’t have come.”

“Yeah. I’m retired.” And then, because the frustration is bubbling up again and you can’t help yourself, you add; “emphasis on tired.”

Steel crosses his arms, ignoring the joke, as always. “You never were comfortable here, even before.”

You blink, taken aback. “What? No. That – that was you.” You jab a finger at him. “That was all you. You kept it from…”

Steel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down. “It was never your home.”

Neither do you. “Yeah, and you just – just going out of your way like this underlines why it–it-it never was.”

To your surprise, that actually gets Steel to look away. He frowns. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“W–what?” An apology is the last thing you ever expected to get from Chen of all people.

“We may not have been friends,” you snort as he says it, “but I didn’t want to see you dead. I’m happy you're still alive.”

You have to take a step to the side, rub at your face, nose. Steel hated you. Despised you even. Right? Didn’t he? Why would he apologize? Or say that? You want him to be lying. Need him to be lying. But if he is, it’s a goddamn master class because your telepathy isn’t picking up anything to the affect.

He’s stilted and awkward and all the charm of poison oak, but he’s not lying. Fuck. Fucking hell.

“Ariadne?” He’s watching you. Damn it.

Take a breath, wipe your eyes, breath out. “I’m fine.” You’re in control. You feel nothing. “L-look, Steel, let’s not pretend, okay? We were never friends.” He can’t take that from you at least.

“No,” Chen agrees, “but we were allies. Teammates even.”

“Well good for you, I’m retired now.” He has to be lying. Somehow.

“Are you?”

You grit your teeth. “Yes.” Technically you’re not lying, you suppose. “I’ve got no intention of getting involved with the Rangers again, trust me.” You frown as you shake your head. Chen is Marshal now. Attracting his attention is the absolute last goddamn thing you need in your life.

Chen meets your frown with a terse one of his own. “Then I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Everything okay here?”

You jump, taking your hand away from your face to glare in Herald’s direction. Fuck you’re out of it if you’re letting the kid get the jump on you.

“Herald.” Chen gives you a thoughtful look. “I thought you’d stay with Argent.”

Oh, that’s right, Herald and Argent are supposed to be dating. You’d completely forgotten. It sure didn’t seem like it back there.

Herald wrings his hands, “Ortega’s talking to her, so… I thought I’d come check…” He withers under the combined weight of your’s and Chen’s stares. “Ortega asked me. To make sure nothing… had happened…”

Chen sighs. “Of course she did.”

Herald glances between the two of you and realize he’s hovering an inch off the floor. Nervous response? How much control does he actually have over his flight? You don’t like the way he keeps stealing glances at you. It’s unnerving.

You hold out your hands, palms up, “I’m fine. Chen here is just walking me to the door.”

Herald looks between the two of you again. Clueless. Confused. How’s it feel to be on the outside for once, wonderbread? “Okay. I just… wanted to make sure?”

Chen straightens up, glancing sideways at you. “We were just… reminiscing.”

You flinch at the word, but focus on Herald instead. “Ortega worries too much.”

“I’ll uh, I’ll get back to it then.” Herald smiles at you. You really wish he wouldn’t. “It was nice to actually get to meet you, Sidestep.”

“Ariadne.” You correct him without even thinking about it, and then blink in surprise at yourself.

Fuck. This is Ortega’s fault. Ariadne is dead. That’s not who you are anymore. But spending even these past few hours having to answer to it – being called that name… it’s starting to feel like yours again.

Hurts like hell.

Steel turns away, back down towards the elevator. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[no reason for suspicion of me]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718809/chapters/49220582)


	16. but i never could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t part of the plan. Once was miraculous enough. But a second time? And now you’ve been dragged along all day. But this stupid trip with Ortega doesn’t have to be a disaster. You can still turn this towards your advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Felt Like I Had Died]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbOyTiFiIMw)

##  but i never could

You shouldn’t be trailing in Ortega’s shadow. You need to be working. Skimming the cash for Dr. Mortum’s last payment. How the hell did you manage to avoid her for two goddamn years and now you’ve run into her, by complete chance, twice in the span of two weeks?

Maybe this isn’t a complete loss? Any insider intel you could collect on the Rangers could tilt the odds in your favor when the time for your rebirth finally arrived. Second rebirth? Re-re-rebirth? Fuck it, who cares.

Focus on Ortega instead, walking next to you, excitedly guiding you down Main Street. She’s in casual clothes, a light blue training jacket over a deeper blue tank-top with grey shorts. As the day heats up, the jacket slides further down her back, exposes the tanned curve of shoulders, her arms–

No. Stop it. Don’t get distracted you idiot.

“Oh, hey!” Ortega tugs at your arm and you reflexively yank it back. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to check this place out.” Ortega’s pointing a thumb at the building you just walked past. A Neon sign stuck in the window reads ViVi’s in hot pink letters.

“What?” You ask, careful not to let your facial expression change.

Ortega rubs the back of her neck, “Just this thrift shop I keep hearing about. All sorts of odds and ends.” She smiles at you, pulling you behind her with a genuine enthusiasm stronger than any grip she could have used.

Thrift shop?

You hunch your shoulders as you shut the door behind you. The interior of the store is dimly lit and the shelves closely packed together. Claustrophobic. Calls to mind memories of something else – somewhere else. You shudder, pulling your arms tight around your body. 

How do you want to play this? You’ve been here as Jane once or twice when hunting down some specialty request items to speed along Dr. Mortum’s work. What are the odds Ortega would pick the same place?

Being here in person rather than as Jane… It’s like you’ve walked into a dream. New and familiar, just slightly off in a way you can’t quite articulate. Difference in the build of your bodies? Height? It’s unsettling, whatever it is.

Ortega raises an eyebrow at you as you hesitate. Do you look uncomfortable? Well, you’re always uncomfortable in new places, so that’s not suspicious, right? “You looking for, um, anything in particular?” You ask.

“Not really,” There’s that sly grin again. “Just been hoping to scope the place out.”

You wave a hand, shooing her away. “Well, then go… scope it out I guess.” She’s not as subtle as she thinks she is. She’s on Ranger business. But to what end? Is there more to ViVi’s then you had picked up on as Jane? Might as well let her sniff around, maybe you’ll learn something that Jane can put to use.

None of the employees seem to recognize it’s Charge you’ve walked in with. You’ll never understand that. How do you live in this city and not know who Ortega is on sight? Some people are willfully ignorant.

You take a different aisle from Ortega. Put some space between the two of you so you can think properly. Once, in another life, you’d have to restrain yourself not to follow in Ortega’s shadow. Laugh at her dumb jokes just a little too long. Go out of your way to find something she’d like. 

You pull a pack of socks out of a bin. Little blue lightning bolts are stitched just below the hem. Does she still find this kind of thing funny? It’s been so long since you’ve ‘been’ Ariadne Becker, you’re not sure you know how to anymore. You don’t want to think about the past. Just let it fade. She’s not your friend anymore, she’s your enemy. You put the socks back.

You wonder who Ortega is dating these days…? There’s always somebody in her sights. 

“Ari!” Ortega calls and you jump an inch, almost knocking over the bin of socks. “Ari, over here, check these out.”

She’s smiling. Like that.

Oh no.

This can’t be good.

“...do I even want to–to know, Ortega?” With some trepidation you navigate your way through the aisles to her. It’s a shelf of kitsch, the kind of bargain-bin junk tourists get suckered into buying to prove they didn’t just stay at home for a week.

Ortega thrusts something small and plastic into your hands. You bring it up to your face to inspect it. You purse your lips, unimpressed. “This garbage still exists?” It’s a small plastic figurine in the shape of your old Sidestep get-up. The bust is, distressingly, bigger than its real life counterpart.

Ortega tsks at you. “Ariadne! It’s not garbage! It’s–“ You wait for her to think of something. “Well, okay, maybe these ones are. Look at that paint job. It’s not even on model.”

You shoot her a look. “W–what are you, an – an expert?”

You frown at the little plastic woman. What would she think of you now? There’s going to be a whole museum of this garbage opening up soon. Big richy-rich project. The grand opening is going to be a who’s-who of important city folk.

Where better to announce your arrival?

You sigh and press the figurine back into Ortega’s hands. “It’s just junk.” There’s going to be an exhibit on Sidestep there. That absolutely has to go. To think some – some shrine to your past idiocy is going to co-exist in the same city as you… it’s unbearable. Sidestep would hate what you’re doing. That’s because she was a naive idiot, clinging to the hope that working with the system would get her clemency.

You’re glad she’s dead.

Ortega tsks, turns over the figure in her hands. “Still as self-conscious about these as ever I see.” She sighs, putting it back in the bin.

“I never even got licensing fees for it.”

She looks at you ruefully, “You know, if you had ever joined the Rangers, we could have helped you protect your image better. Remember those Sidestep serials?”

Your eyes go wide, face getting warm. “Oh f–f–fuck you. I never want to – to – to remember that shitheap ever again.”

“Oh Charge!” Ortega puts her arm to her forehead, mimicking the overblown acting, “Mi amor… you have sidestepped… my heart!”

“F–fuck off!” You punch her in the shoulder, hard enough to rock Ortega backwards a step as she collapses into a fit of giggles. “They – they thought I was a guy!” You make a face, shudder running down your spine. It’s not like you hadn’t clarified it for everyone. More than once. You think they’d have looked up one of the few interviews you’d done.

Ortega grins, wide and smugly, a look of mischief in her eyes. “Yeah, but you gotta admit, you made a pretty handsome dude.” She cracks up.

You glower at her, which of course only makes Ortega crack up again.

Idiot. She won’t be so quick to laugh in a few weeks. Instead of laughing she can sit in quiet contemplation of her total failure. While you stand triumphant over a smoking pile of rubble.

No one makes soap operas of mass-murderers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[little plastic woman (part 1)]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714501)


	17. want too much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares again? No problem; take Jane for a round at the dojo. Nothing like a little bit of literally getting out of your head to get some perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Nobody]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qooWnw5rEcI)

##  want too much

Nightmares again:

_ Strapped to a gurney _

_ your mouth is a font of blood as _

_ something that whirrs like a mechanical pencil _

_ sharpener – you can’t see, can’t watch but _

_ Something pulls – inside – someone is cutting cutting cutting _

Jane shakes her head and slaps her cheeks. Focus. Get your head in the game. Why did the nightmares have to get worse after you stopped the drugs? Felt more real. You had to cling to the idea that this would all be worth it. Being alive will have been worth it if you could cash it in on destroying your torturers. 

Possessing people will have been worth it. Stealing will have been worth it. Money. Lives. This body. Lying to the woman that had once been your best friend. It has to be, otherwise why are you here? What good are you otherwise? Why else did you survive? No one else can even begin to understand – that place, what happened. Any price paid is worth burning it down and salting the earth. They’re all complicit.

If you can’t sleep as Ariadne then you can at least make yourself useful as Jane. Practice your forms. Try to empty your mind. Your reflection in the mirror. No, not your’s – Jane’s. Countering your every move.

How do you defeat yourself?

Break the mirror?

Usually Jane is a welcome distance from your own body, but something’s bridged the gap today. You can see Jane’s hands shake in the mirror. Her face red, eyes wet.

Goddamnit. Get it under control.

Why is Jane crying?

You shouldn’t feel anything. Jane shouldn’t feel anything.

Just be empty already.

Reuniting with Ortega must be throwing you off worse than you expected.

Fuck.

Grabbing her towel from the hook on the wall, Jane sits off on the bench to the side and buries her face in it. Her body is shaking, muffled sobs hitching her chest.

goddamnit

“Miss? Are you alright?”

Jane straightens up, her heart pounding. Turns her head to find the source. “I– I’m not sure,” her eyes widen a little. You recognize the woman standing to Jane’s side. Ortega??? Jane forces a smile. “Just stress.”

Have you seriously been just missing each other? For how long?

Seriously, what are the odds? Of all the dojos and gyms in the city, she chose this one?

Jane tilts her head, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before. Are you a member? …or just visiting?” Jane towels her face dry to hide her expression, try to work an honest smile on. Jane isn’t you, she has her own body language but– this is Ortega. You already know her.

Or you thought you did. Once, anyway.

“I’m a member,” she shakes her head, an uneasy smile on her face. “Actually, I thought you might be someone else at first.” She laughs, rubbing the back of her neck. “You look more than a little bit like a friend of mine.”

Jane furrows her brow. “…thank you…?” Who the fuck is she talking about?

“Sorry, I know that sounds weird.” She laughs again, “This is why I come here in the mornings. Coffee doesn’t cut it anymore.”

Jane purses her lips, you struggle to keep her heart calm. “That’s it then. I’m not usually here so early. I just… needed to get some frustration out.” Jane tilts her head, a tiny shrug of the shoulders. “Bad night. You know how it is.”

Ortega’s still smiling at Jane, and you can feel her face heating up. It’s unnerving. “Let’s hope that bad night comes with a silver lining then.” Another laugh. “Or maybe that’s just clouds?”

Is…

Is Ortega trying to flirt with Jane?

Is Ortega interested in women!? That can’t be right, can it? But–

She’s flirting with Jane. Okay, assume that’s correct. Jane who apparently looks like a friend of Ortega’s. Who? It’s not like you know Ortega’s social life anymore. But... Jane looks like you. Jane looks like Ortega’s friend... Who the fuck is Ortega’s friend that looks like you?

The way she’s looking at Jane right now... did she ever look at you like that? No. No way. Your memory is not the best, but you would remember something like that wouldn’t you? It’s making Jane’s heart race.

Alright – okay – fine – how’re you going to play this?

Jane puts the towel down, a smile creeping up her face. “You know, you could have tried being smooth with something like ‘even the darkest night ends with dawn.’” Jane reaches down and grabs her water bottle, stretching out her back. Jane pops the sports cap and arches her eyebrows at Ortega as she takes a long swig of water.

It takes Ortega a second to stop staring and to think up a response. “Yeah, that would have been a good line.” She’s still smiling. “I’m just not at my best right now, got a lot on my mind.”

Jane taps the cap closed again and shifts her legs so she’s facing towards Ortega on the bench. “Oh?” 

Ortega shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” Jane smirks, leans back on the bench as she looks up at Ortega. “You look way too tense for first thing in the morning.”

Ortega’s smile turns brittle and she sits down on the bench with Jane. You’d swear Jane’s heart leaps into her throat as Ortega’s knee accidentally brushes Jane’s.

“I really am, huh?” Ortega laughs. She folds her hands on her lap, doesn’t quite look at Jane. “It’s just, well…” she steals a glance at Jane, “a friend of mine’s in some trouble. I’m just trying to figure out how I can fix things.” Her smile fades.

Argent then. It must bother her that there’s nothing she can do to address the problem. It’s not often the famous Charge can’t just hero her way to a solution.

Jane leans in towards her, “You really care about your friend, huh?” She smirks.

Ortega laughs, “What? You don’t have friends who'd do the same?”

Huffs, looks away, the smile on Jane’s face is gone. “I work too much for that kind of thing.”

“That’s sad.” Ortega sounds like she actually means it, amazing. “It can be nice to at least fight someone who can’t mirror every move you make.”

Jane laughs, her face threatening a smile. You shouldn’t have laughed at that. It wasn’t even that funny. “Reflections aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, I guess.”

God, it hurts to be able to talk like this with Ortega. You’ve missed her. Maybe she betrayed you, maybe she abandoned you. Maybe none of that is true. Maybe something even worse is. But right now she’s sitting next to Jane, and she’s showing interest, and Jane’s showing interest back, and fuck this hurts. Jane’s so much prettier than you are. Objectively confirmed.

Ortega gives Jane a look, and stands up offering a hand back down to you, “You want a sparring buddy?”

Jane could be what you never could. Maybe… maybe you could get your inside scope on the Rangers through Jane instead? Cut contact with Ortega as Ariadne, cultivate… whatever this is with her and Jane instead. That would be monumentally safer at any rate.

Jane puts the towel down on the bench, takes her hand, letting her pull Jane to her feet. “If you think you can keep up.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” there’s that smug grin you know so well. “I’m Ortega, by the way, Julia Ortega.”

Jane returns her grin with a cocky one of her own. “Jane. Now, are you ready to get your ass kicked old lady?”

Ortega blinks in surprise as she lets go of your hand. “Hey, I’m not old!”

“My bad, you don’t look a day over forty.”

Ortega laughs, a look of genuine shock on her face. “Excuse you, I’m 38.”

Jane smirks. “Practically obsolete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[The Expy]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724122)


	18. make up your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rangers are expecting you to help them find the culprit. You can't put this off forever.
> 
> Convenient that the culprit is you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Ariadne]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXDpGjnBm-Q)

##  make up your mind

You chew your cheek as you follow Ortega through the hallway, one hand fiddling with your sunglasses. Here we go, the day of reckoning can be delayed no further. And lo, though you walk through the valley of death, you shall fear no evil, because… um – you are evil.

Or something.

Fuck.

Ortega stops and turns her head to check on you, offers an encouraging smile. “Thank you for doing this. I mean it.”

You keep your face placid, shrug your shoulders. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I could think of any other way.”

You frown at that. The logic a little too familiar. “It’s… nice to be wanted, I guess.”

She looks at you again, so you shift your focus, study the floor in front of your feet. “Hey, I’ve missed you, you know?”

You don’t know what to say for that and so opt for ‘nothing,’ expecting Ortega to fill the silence like she always does. Instead the empty cord stretches out, the electric hum of machinery buzzing under your hearing.

You step forward down the hall and it mercifully prompts Ortega to take the lead again. “So, uh, is–is, uh, Lady Argent ready?”

“As much as she can be,” Ortega frowns, slowing her pace. “I hope this helps, even if you don’t find anything. She’s been…”

“I can understand,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. Something heavy and painful squeezes your chest, your throat. “She’s been– been…”

“Is that what it felt like when–”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You voice is cold and flat, brooking no argument.

“I’m sorry.”

Ugh. You wave her away. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not though, is it?”

“What’ll it take for you to – to lay off on that shit?” You snap back.

“Just… talk to me?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, hugging your sides as you shudder. “No.” You’ve never really thought hard about what happens to someone after you finish possessing them. It’s never been important. Now you are – can taste the bile in the back of your throat.

_ cables twisting around _

_ the feet like _

_ snakes in the grass. _

_ red strings wrapped _

_ around your wrists, _

_ yanked tight, _

_ your hand finds the dial _

_ on the plasma caster’s power setting _

“–felt it too, during that last mission.”

You blink, lost for a moment. “Who?”

Ortega gives you a look. “Chen?”

Oh.

Wait.

“What about the dampeners?”

Ortega shakes her head, “They overloaded.” She speeds up as she talks, “That’s why I got to you so late. It started to get to him too. Just about managed to keep himself under control.”

Frown, “How?” How did Steel do what you couldn’t?

Ortega frowns, obviously not proud of herself. “I reminded him he was a soldier, you know? That his life wasn’t his anymore.”

Oh.

Your frown only deepens further. “Well good for him.”

The walls are a friendlier color but as Ortega opens the door for you to step inside, you can’t help but note the similarity to an interrogation room. Glass pane into the hallway, single door in or out. Two chairs on opposite sides of a small square table. Light hanging down from a singular overhead lamp. You pull the halves of your jacket together with one hand as you sit down in the only unoccupied chair.

Ortega shuts the door behind her.

Lady Argent sits across from you, arms folded in front of her chest, leaning back, away from you, shoulders tense. Might as well try to ease into things…

You push up your sunglasses. No way in hell are you taking them off here. “H–how are you, um… doing, Lady Argent?”

She scowls at you. “Let’s just get on with this already. It’s been weeks.”

Try not to flinch, take a breath. In. Out. “Alright, well… close your eyes, if you could?”

She hunches up, glaring at you. “Why.” Damn, you’d swear she could see right through you. Suddenly, even having Ortega standing in a corner doesn’t feel like sufficient protection. God, if you screw this up, you’ll be lucky if it only costs your life.

You try to smile, put your hands flat on your lap, gripping your skin through clothes so they won’t shake. “N–n–no sense turning this into a staring contest, right? It’ll be– it’ll be hard for us to focus if we’re all laughing.”

Argent snarls at you, and you flinch back in your seat. “This isn’t funny.” 

Ortega steps forward from her corner towards the two of you. “Angie, it’s okay. Calm down. You can trust Ari.” Your stomach twists at that last addition.

“I am calm.” Argent huffs, scrunching up her face. “Stay out of this Julia.” She turns her head back to you, staring you down. You give her a nervous smile and she shuts her eyes with another huff. “…should I be doing anything?”

There’s something deeply unsettling about how her the silver sheen of her skin reflects your own face back at you.

You bite your lip, “Just… be quiet. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to do anything like this.” You lie, and you feel sick again for doing so. You need to pull yourself together fast or your cover-up job is going to be even worse at hiding your involvement then the original crime.

“Take your time, Ari.” Ortega’s voice feels like it’s coming from a thousand miles away as you close your own eyes.

It starts with skimming thoughts, like dipping your hand through a stream. It’s small – a child’s – yours or hers? Skimming the water fingers brushing pebbles and the water deepens, further and further as the blue of the reflected sky deepens and the wavering images of the forest drops away and you’re in the thick of it – immersed. The current grips your arm pulling you one way, your leg it yanks another.

The haze of blue blinding your perception gives way to metal spires mirrored in the sea. Constantly shifting, tilting, collapsing and rebuilding, the reflections out of sync. Memory of metal and sharpness. You pull your own song tight against you, pull yourself into the tiniest speck of a presence as you can manage. The longer you’re here, the greater a risk you take.

Pull yourself tight, plunge down into the depth of the labyrinth. You don’t have time to try to decipher the literal meaning of the metaphors being thrown at you. Get in, get out. Follow the thread. You were always good at that at least.

Or you thought you were.

Wrong turn, and the mindscape melts around you into something else, a shadow of a room. Somewhere in the Rangers HQ? Ortega stands in front of you but you only know that by her shape and the memory. The figure before you is alive in pulsing coils of light like you’ve never seen her before.

You’re in Argent’s memory?

Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[maybe it will break, and maybe it won’t]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747378/chapters/49295789)


	19. try and take control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diving into someone’s waking mind is already risky on it’s own. Diving into the mind of someone you attacked so you can alter their memories to point away from you? Six kinds of suicidal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Night Terrors]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45CZdmbSx6Q)

##  try and take control

We can’t just pretend this never happened, Ortega pleads. You try to focus on her through Argent’s eyes. What is she wearing? A suit. White? When was this?

Yes we can, Argent snaps and your – her vision jerks around as she crosses her arms, scowls at Ortega.

Ortega – this unsettling superposition of wires under human flesh. She gestures, leaving glowing trails with her hands. You know it doesn’t work that way. You’re–

A risk to the team. Argent snarls. A liability.

What’s that look for? Ortega frowns.

Argent’s vision darts between the pulsing in Ortega’s abdomen to her face. You sure I’m the only liability here?

That is not what we’re talking about.

Fine. But we will. Soon.

Ortega sighs. If that’s what it takes.

I just find her a bit creepy. You frown, drumming your hand against your elbow.

Angie! Ortega frowns, eyebrows furrowed.

You take a step back, What? Something about how she looks–

Just stop! Ortega raises her voice at you. She’s been through a lot and deserves some–

Huh. Arch a single eyebrow.

What!?

A smile curls your lip. Nothing, you lie. It’s just… funny.

What? What is? Ortega’s face heats up, an intensity of color.

You. Point a finger at her face. Are blushing.

She’s a friend. An old friend. Ortega is glaring daggers at you now.

You keep your smirk. Uh-huh.

Look, just, be civil to her okay? This isn’t her fault. Ortega’s words twist a knife in your heart as the memory warps and melts around you. It’s not your fault. This isn’t your fault. You’re just– you’re just trying to help right?

Cables, like snakes in the grass coil around you.

_ Sorry Chickadee, here comes the net. _

You don’t even realize at first that anything’s wrong. You’re just walking down the street, enjoying the temporary respite from the constant throbbing pain in your bones. And then you don’t make the turn towards your apartment. You keep walking. Cross the street. Huh. That’s funny. 

Must have been day-dreaming.

let your feet carry you to work by sheer reflex of memory there’s an itching in the back of your skull inside behind one eye a pressure pushing down people screaming flash of green when did you get to the ranger’s building? that’s blocks away plug in the security code descend down, down into the vault no one questions you why? why can’t they see something is wrong? you movement feels stiff yet light like there’s someone else pulling the strings something speaks with your mouth to the security guard and it’s not you, not your words and then

you’re scanning a wall of boxes tracing lines of circuitry pry loose one cabinet take the box inside and something in your skin buzzes crawls hums as your fingers wrap around the box whatever asshole’s running you doesn’t pay any mind too drunk on their supposed victory but still you can’t move, can’t speak cable wires burrowed through your bones pulled this way and that by something else

and fuck thank god there’s Herald you useless man don’t just stand there smiling this isn’t you it’s not you, help do something a shock like lightning runs through you and your hand goes straight into Herald’s smiling face knocking him off his feet goddamnit thats what you get why won’t you realize something is wrong Danny help me

he says something as the you that isn’t you runs and you can’t hear it can’t process it your vision dark like you keep falling asleep have to force yourself awake but there’s nothing you can do nothing nothing nothing your own fists clumsily bludgeoning and he doesn’t understand doesn’t get it useless useless somebody help help please why doesn’t somebody help you

You manage to yank yourself away before you impale yourself any further on the memory, an angry hissing red razor, a thousand different edges poking out in all directions. The water around it shimmers in a boiling haze.

Fuck.

Shit.

Goddamn.

That was bad.

You can’t afford time to process it right now. At least divorced from your body you don’t feel your usual reactions. No nausea. No tight throat. No panicked breathing. Clear your mind of all of it. Both your minds.

Focus on calm seas and desert plains.

Bit by bit the water colors, the edges dull, the shifting of the metal around you slows. You’ve made your job harder for yourself, but you’re not doomed yet. This’ll call for extra finesse. Dance from memory spike to memory spike, pull thoughts of home, wear the smell of baking bread like a cloak. Cast aside your jealousy pangs at her memories of family.

Memories aren’t recordings, it’s a performance, and one you can change. Touch the core of it again, gently, lightly, don’t get sucked in, scrub your give-aways drop little hints of something else.

No one’s heard from her in months, her picture plastering news reports. The innocent young woman, would-be vigilante. Where is she now? You don’t know, but Locus will make the perfect scapegoat. Strong enough to have plausibly done it. So long gone it’s unlikely the Rangers will ever find her and realize the ruse.

Paint her image into the crowd as Argent steps out of the therapy clinic. Purple on black skin, re-route your regret as coming from her:

It wasn’t your fault Argent. It wasn’t your fault. She had no other choice. It was nothing against you.

She’s sorry. She’s so, so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[maybe it will break, and maybe it won’t]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747378/chapters/49295789)


	20. tightening around your throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking hell, what did you do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Slow Days]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mocORZQ_HiM)

##  tightening around your throat

You jerk awake in your own body to the room spinning around you, nausea churning at the back of your mouth. Someone’s hands pressing hard into your shoulders, holding you steady.

“Ariadne– Ari? You okay?”

You flinch, look up and try to focus your eyes. Ortega’s mouth is a tight frown, brows knitted together. What does she– Shouldn’t she be attending to Argent? Not you?

You cough, “I’m fine.” You rub your nose and groan, a line of red runs down your finger, across your hand. “Fuck. Got any tissues?”

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Ortega reaches into her back pocket pulling out a travel pack and handing the whole thing to you. You quickly shove a tissue up your noise and then wipe down your bloody hand.

“Thanks.” You glance over at Argent and flinch, there’s a slow boiling fury in her eyes. This is it. The moment of truth. If you fucked up – if it’s you she recognizes – well then maybe you…

Argent spits out a name through clenched teeth. “Locus.” Her hands curled into fists. “It was Locus. I knew she couldn’t be trusted. No one is that nice.” She shoves her chair backward as she gets to her feet.

Ortega helps you up, “Are you sure it was her?”

“I am.” She pays a passing glance in your direction and your stomach flips. “Sorry about your friend there. But she managed to jog something at least. I saw her. I saw her just before it all happened.” 

You glance at Ortega as Argent paces the room, flexing her fingers which have sharpened into razor claws. “She is up to something. I don’t know what. She thinks she was forced? She’s _sorry_?” Her voice drops into an unnerving growl. “She’ll pay. No one does something like that to me and walks away.” She drums her hands – lethal pinpricks – against her hips, quivering in rage.

You feel sick, watching her.

There’s… There’s no way she’ll actually find Locus, right?

“You should go tell Chen while it’s still fresh in your head.” Ortega puts an arm around your shoulder, holding you up, and you let her. Your body pressing into hers. You still feel dizzy. Was she always this tall? You didn’t shrink in the past seven years did you? “I’ll make sure Ari’s okay here.”

Argent flexes her hands, brushes back her hair in a dramatic flourish. “We finally have a lead.” She marches out the room, slamming the door hard enough behind her to make you jump.

Ortega frowns as she looks at you. “Are you alright, Ari? You look awful.”

You worm your way free of her and narrow your eyes, hold up the wad of tissues with one hand as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m – I’m fine. Stop worrying so much.” It’s not you she should worry about. You don’t deserve her concern.

“If you say so. Let me just clean up a bit before we head out.”

Legs still shaky as you stand up but – but you need space. You put some distance between the two of you, lean back against the wall of the room as you watch Ortega fuss about the room. When she turns back to you, there’s a chocolate bar in her hands. “I know it’s not a milkshake, but I figured you would want a pick-me-up.”

You eyes widen at her, “W–where the – the heck were you hiding this?” You take the bar from her, hold it in one hand while you check if your nose is still bleeding with the other. Satisfied you at least won’t bleed over the chocolate you rip the wrapper open and bite down on an edge; let it melt in your mouth.

“I know how you get when you do something big like this.”

You close your eyes and slump against the wall. For a moment it’s like the past seven years haven’t happened. It’s just you and Julia, de-stressing after some death-defying battle. Allies again. Friends. But– “You never used to be this thoughtful.”

“Things change.”

“I guess.”

The taste of copper mixes with the taste of chocolate.

You can hear Ortega shift and you open your eyes and now she’s sitting in one of the chairs, turned it so she can face you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost want to laugh. Instead you shrug, fold the wrapper back up and toss the candy bar to the table. “No.”

Ortega meets your gaze and you have to look away again. “It can’t hurt.”

You toss the bloodied tissue into the trash bin by the door. Rim shot, 2 points. Pull out another tissue and wad it up there. “You aren’t–” You stop yourself, wince. Try again, “you aren’t the one with the scars.”

Fuck. You don’t deserve her sympathy. If she knew the truth about you… Not even just about what you are any more. It’s what you’ve done. What you’re going to do. You’re going to have to think hard about this. About how far you’re really willing to go.

What you’ve already done – to – to Argent, you...

Do you really need to blow up a whole building of people just to take out some dumb exhibit? Maybe…

“Ari… none of us got out of there in one piece.”

You tense up, “Y–you know what I mean.” What is her deal? Why does she care so damn much?

“Maybe, but…” Ortega trails off as she stands up again, she hesitates, a half step towards you. God. She’s really trying isn’t she. This isn’t an act. It isn’t a scheme to get you to slip up. Fuck. All this effort… you don’t deserve a second of it.

You don’t deserve to be here. You shouldn’t have done this. Ortega’s yanked Ariadne’s corpse out of the ground and now all the maggots have gone running for cover. Maybe Chen and Ortega don’t hate you. But now they will. What you’ve already done here.

But you can’t stop. It’s this or dying or worse. You or the Directive. 

You step towards her, duck your head towards the side and pull her into a hug. It takes her a second to register and then her arms clap tight against your back, pulling you against her, holding you a little harder, a little longer than appropriate.

It makes your skin crawl, doing this. Touching someone. But it – but you – You don’t know want to think. Don’t want to. But this might be your last chance. 

Eventually you have to pull away from her. You cough, “I’ve.. um, m-missed you too.” You can feel your face heat up as say it.

Ortega’s face lights up, a grin spreading wide across her face, and she’s acting way too excited over some dumb hug.

You step away from her before she can hug you again. Try to scowl to keep from smiling back. “D–don’t– don’t get carried away now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[maybe it will break, and maybe it won’t]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747378/chapters/49295789)


	21. my body is here and i am inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a scenic stroll on the biggest bridge in the city, for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Honest. Go away Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide attempt
> 
> [[Panic Attack]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mO8RxQJOAPk)

##  my body is here and i am inside

The wind whips the ends of your jacket about you. Stubbornly hold the halves together rather than zip up. Let the bay air curl around you, toxic smog and all. The Millennial Span Bridge isn’t really meant for foot traffic. There had been plans once, build a mini-mall in the bridge supports but the money had dried up not long after the bridge proper was built and the shops never opened.

But the walkway remained. Just had to hop two locked gates. No razor-wire, no electricity. Hardly a real deterrent. By the halfway point you’re high enough above the water that you can see the occasional boat passing under. The sun is starting to set at this point – it’s been a long day – but you keep your sunglasses on.

Old L.A. would have have never called for a bridge like this, as far as you understand it. But things change when half your geography drops into the sea. There’s a safety railing to run your hand along, because of course there is. No one wants the bad press of your vanity project becoming a hub for jumpers. But it’s half-assed job. Find a joint that hangs down from the river of cars rumbling over your head and you could climb over it pretty easy.

On the other side and there’s even a convenient lip of metal wide enough for you sit on, let your legs dangle over the void. Kicking freely.

Well.

Here you are, Ariadne.

Now what?

It’s been, what? Almost two weeks? Meeting Ortega in that diner. You haven’t gone back there since. It felt too portentous. And now the rest of the Rangers know you’re here. And you’re ostensibly alive. Hopefully they believe you about being retired. Hopefully Ortega kept quiet about what you babbled on to her about. She’s always been one to understand your need for privacy, but it’s not like she hasn’t screwed up before in the name of trying to ‘help’ you.

It had been a mistake to listen to her at all. To let her drag you into somebody’s else’s problem. Why? Because you missed her? You miss plenty of things you can’t have. That doesn’t mean you should go for it. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And then–

You shudder, hug yourself tight as a wave of nausea washes over you again. God. You’re sick of that. Sick of feeling helpless. Sick of feeling powerless. Out of control of your own life. Sick of–

_ cables, like snakes in the grass, _

_ coiled around your feet. the red threads wrapped _

_ around your wrists pull _

_ tight and move you forward. so much lighter now  _

_ that it’s not you that’s moving it _

_ but then who’s driving? _

_ and then there’s herald’s goofy smiling face and _

_ doesn’t he understand that something is wrong? _

_ somebody, anybody, help _

Is that what it’s been like for every person you’ve possessed over the past two years? You want to believe Argent just got some unlucky combination; an unusually strong mind and the need to keep her not entirely under. She was just… unlucky. Sorry honey, you rolled snake eyes. Nothing personal, honest.

But Argent is the only mind you’ve actually seen the after effects for. How it has stuck on her like plaque on teeth, eating away at what’s underneath. You’ve never cared before. As long as no one immediately raised the alarm, what did it matter? Possession? Who would believe them? Nobody would. No one’s ever heard of such an ability in all the years the Hero Drug has been around, fucking up humanity.

But the Rangers would believe it.

Because it happened to them.

Because it happened to you.

Because coiled snakes and red strings wormed their way into your head and pointed your own gun at your head. Because the puppeteer tossed you through a window and over the edge. Because white rooms and bright lights and echoing footsteps.

How many people have you done this to, already?

How many will never feel right again for the rest of their lives?

Isn’t this what you wanted? For someone to finally understand? So why do you feel… feel so...

You lean your head back against the metal mesh of the protective webbing that’s supposed to keep you on the other side. Feel the hexagons of steel press against the back of your skull. Cover your face in your hands. You want to cry, can feel it in your lungs. But your throat’s too tight, your eyes are burning, the tears not coming.

Was it that you didn’t know or have you just been running away from the truth the whole time?

This is what you are now. A monster. Or no, a ghost. That’s cute. Maybe that should be your villain moniker. Or fuck it, maybe you won’t bother with one at all. Just roll with whatever the press calls you.

Or maybe they won’t call you anything because your body will have turned up on the beach, another waterlogged victim eaten by the city of devils.

Julia might be sad for a little bit, but it’s hard to imagine. It feels selfish pretending she’d care about you at all. Seven years is a long time. Maybe– maybe the Farm had been lying to you about her, about what she’d done, but that didn’t change the fact that having you in her life would only make Julia’s worse. Any passing pain she might possibly have over your loss again would be worth sparing her what’s coming down the line.

Chen would be relieved, you’re certain. All that talk about being happy you’re alive. You know a sack of bullshit when it’s thrown in your face. He wants you staying far away from his precious Rangers.

Lady Argent would rather just kill you herself. Or would, if she knew the truth. Maybe you should tell her. Let her have that closure, something you never got. Would that help her or make it worse? You don’t know. And then maybe she wouldn’t actually kill you. Maybe she’d just hand you back over.

Dr. Mortum would be confused about the sudden disappearance of her new favorite business liaison, you’re sure. But she’s been working in the underground for years. People disappear without warning all the time. She’ll have forgotten Jane before the end of the year.

Jane herself… without you to take care of her, she’ll wither and die, comatose as she is. There’s nothing you can do about that. She was a dead woman on life support before you found her. You just staved off the final verdict by a few years is all.

Are you missing anyone? You think that’s everybody. It’s not exactly a compelling list of reasons to stick around.

What reasons do you have to not to step off anyway?

So you can burn the Farm down? Expose the Directive? If you don’t try no one else will. No one else is in a position to even guess at what’s going on like you are. This project has literally been the only thing holding you together since you escaped their clutches two years ago. Sometimes you screw up and fall asleep instead of jumping into Jane and–

You drag your nails against your scalp, force yourself to swallow. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, rapid shallow breaths leaving you lightheaded.

At least out here there’s no one that can see you like this.

A lot more people are going to get hurt before this is over. Unless you stop now.

But if you stop you die.

The water’s far below you. Far enough? You’ll break bones against the water tension on impact. Enough to put you out? You’re not sure on the math. If you live, you probably won’t be in any condition to swim. You’ve always wanted to swim, but you’ve never actually put this body in water, would you float? You don’t know. Would you be able to stay composed until you run out of oxygen or would the animal brain take over and send you in a blind panic?

You don’t want to hurt but… maybe you’d deserve it. Maybe you deserve a lot of things. Considering what you’ve done – you deserve what happened to you. Fuck. Fuck it. Fuck everything. You don’t want to do this anymore, you just want to–

“Enjoying the view?”

You freeze, head in your hands. Slowly you raise your head to find Herald hovering a few feet in front of you. His complete nonchalance at casually defying the pull of gravity feels a little surreal. You stare at him through your tinted lenses, uncomprehending.

Herald tilts his head with an uneasy grin. “Sorry, I was just passing by and thought I saw someone on the bridge. So…”

You close your eyes, breath out. In a way, this is a relief. You can focus all your anger on him instead. He’s obviously lying. ‘Just passing by’. Please. Bullshit. These assholes. As if you needed more proof the Rangers being aware of you now was only going to fill your life with even more problems.

“Are you okay?” Herald frowns and it’s all you can do not to groan. This is absolutely not a conversation you want to go down, and not with goddamn fucking boy-wonder Herald of all people. 

“Were you following me, wonderbread?” 

“Of course not!”

“D–don’t lie to a telepath, genius. Who, uh – who put you up to this, Ortega?” There’s a tinge of guilt alright. It’s tempting to delve further, just pry the whole thing out of his head. Is Ortega having you tailed then? You didn’t work with her for five years to not have some idea how she likes to operate.

“Ortega has no idea I’m here, honest.” Huh, he’s telling the truth there. You’re not sure what to make of that. But then, that only leaves one other option.

“Oh. S-so it’s Chen then.” Yep, bingo. “What? Did the Marshal want to make sure I got home safe? How kind.” Why can’t these people just leave you alone to die in peace already?

“That’s– that’s not it,” Herald sighs, you can feel his exasperation. There’s a certain satisfaction in getting to knock that unsettling cheeriness out of his head. “Marshal Steel did ask me to look out for you, okay? But I mean it when I say I was just passing by.”

You open your eyes so you can glare at him.

“To be honest… I… kind of lost track of you three blocks from the building.”

“I don’t appreciate being followed.”

Herald dips down before returning back to eye level. “How did you know?”

“Of– of course I knew,” you lie, “Been at this for years.”

“Were you always this cautious, back… uh, before?”

You flinch, scratch your neck as you avoid looking at him. “Y–yeah. Absolutely.” He buys the lie, thank god.

“Doesn’t that get tiring?”

Someone laughs, sharp and bitter and you realize it’s you. Rub your eyes with the back of one hand. “Look. I… um, I value my privacy. Okay?” You try to emphasize the word privacy, hope he’ll get the hint.

“I can respect that,” says Herald, the man who continues to not leave your presence. “Actually, um…” He hunches down, “I’ve been wanting to ask something, if you don’t mind, Sidestep?”

“Okay first; It’s Ariadne. Second; I–I–I do mind, actually. B–buzz off.” You flick your finger at him. God, just – go away already. You’ve got short and shorter futures to compare and contrast. 

Herald frowns, shakes his head as he drifts a little closer to you. “Sorry, I can’t do that. Actually, uh–” He looks away from you again, scratching his neck. “You’re kind of technically trespassing now.”

“Are – are you kidding me.” You grip the edge of the lip with your hands, the metal cold to the touch. Would he actually try to catch you if you pushed off? “The Rangers really need to stoop to–to–to enforcing f–f–fucking trespassing signs?”

“If you need a lift somewhere I could carry–”

You cut him off with a hand gesture. “Absolutely not.” You grind your teeth. What do you need to say to make him go away?

The spike of worry as Herald drifts even closer suggests that was maybe the wrong tact to try. “I heard you had a rough time today…?” He ventures, “I mean, from helping Lady Argent.”

“It’s n–n–none of your business.” Pinch the bridge of your nose, pushing the sunglasses back up against your eyes. “In fact, speaking of Argent,” you glare at him, “Shouldn’t you be off taking care of her? Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

That gets Herald to back off a little bit, a sudden backwash of unpleasant memories rushing back against you. “We’re on… a break right now, actually.”

“Probably because your– your priorities are so out of whack,” you snap. And yep, that one stings. He flinches and there’s a flush on his face now.

“She’s… been through a lot, and she just needs her space right now.” The way he talks sounds rehearsed, like he’s parroting what someone else told him. Not so confident now.

“I… know.” Fuck, why did you admit that?

“Was it… that bad?”

“God, Herald, that’s – that’s not my place to talk about. Try asking your partner.”

“I just want to… to understand what she’s going through?” Herald gives you a pleading look and you want to melt through the bridge and die. Is this really going to be your last conversation on earth? Playing therapist to some rich jerkward busybody with girl troubles? Really? This is how you go out? You’re pathetic.

You run a hand through your hair, feel all the little knots as the curls pull and snap. “You want to ‘understand?’ Then just – just try fucking listening for… for once.”

“I can’t listen if she doesn’t talk to me!” The genuine anger gets you by surprise. Herald blinks, and then his face turns beat-red. Ashamed of himself? Huh.

Maybe this is your chance. “Look, just leave me alone, okay? Go handle your own shit.”

Herald sighs, sits down next to you on the lip of the bridge. Goddamnit. “Did you and Charge go through phases like this, back in the day?”

You stare at him for a solid thirty seconds trying to process what he meant.

“Sorry, I just, I know you two had a thing and–”

“We–we–we absolutely d–did not!” You voice breaks and can feel your heart pounding in the back of your throat, “We, um, we worked together. That’s it.”

“Oh? I guess I got the wrong impression, I’m sorry.” Herald doesn’t met your death glare, the bastard.

You glare at him in silence and then… a morbid curiosity overtakes you. “What in the hell c–c–could have ever given you that impression?”

“Uh…” Herald balks, and suddenly there’s a dozen different thoughts running through his head and you can’t get a read on any of them. Finally he says, “Well, I mean, there had been a lot of rumors on the usenet forum back in the day?” Rumors!? “But to be honest, I never believed any of it until you and Charge walked in.” Herald shrugs, “And then I was like, ‘oh, well, that makes sense.’”

You don’t have a response to that. Don’t even know how to start parsing it. It was so much easier not to care when you only knew these people from news reports or memories.

“So, I know you said you’re… fine – and I believe you, honest.” Herald’s lying again. “But in that case, do you mind if I just… hang out with you, watch the sunset? This isn’t a bad spot.”

You take a deep breath. In. Out. Push up your sunglasses while you rub the tears and salt out of your eyes. God. Did you smear your make-up? Are your scars visible? Shadow exposed? You can feel your heart-rate speed up again. It takes an active effort to let the thought go. Who cares? Ortega’s not here.

“Yeah, sure.” You say. “Kn–knock yourself out.”

You don’t give a damn what Herald thinks.

“Thanks.” You can feel Herald relax a little as he sits a few inches away from you. Not crowding, but close enough.

You close your eyes, let your shoulders sag as you hit your head back against the metal railing lattice. “I know what you’re– what you think y–you’re doing.”

That gets a spike of alarm from him. God, his thoughts are like an open book. You hate it. “I’m just happy to take a breather.”

“D–don’t bullshit me Herald. We’re both adults here.” You turn your head to glare straight at him. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will find out where you live and fill your bed with thumbtacks.”

“Ah. Okay…” Herald looks away from you, uneasy. “Noted.” He fidgets, hands in his lap. “Hey, can I ask you another question?”

You groan. “I can’t stop you,” you lie.

“Why ‘Sidestep’?”

“Huh?” You blink, stare down at the water far below. little waves beckoning you on down. “Oh, well… Why ‘Herald’?”

He cringes, embarrassed? Hah. “It was my management team that came up with it. Focus testing or something? I was just hap–”

“Stop.” You hold up a hand, dismiss the words with a wave. “I d–d–don’t actually care that much.”

“Oh. Uh – okay.”

You sit in silence, kicking your legs up and back under the lip. Take a breath. In. Out. “I wanted people to – to focus on the fighting skills. That it – it was all trained or something. Reading people’s thoughts is… harder if they know you can do it. Th–throw up obstacles, walls.”

“So it was a strategic thing?”

“Well…” You allow yourself a small smile. Still not looking at Herald. “S–something like that. There… there was, uh… this person I–I knew around then.” Goddamn, how long has it been since you thought about Chelsea? It makes something inside you ache. Yet another sin for your tally sheet. “Thought it w–was… too dangerous. She asked if I was g–going to to sidestep my way through every fight. So…”

“So it was… a spite thing?”

“Y–yeah. I guess.”

“How did they take it?”

You frown, trying to think back. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Did it ever come up? There was like, a year between when you started the name and Chelsea left, wasn’t there? It must have. “Wh–whatever. Spite can get you pre–pretty far in life if you use it right.”

“I don’t know about that…” Something’s buzzing just under Herald’s thoughts and you can’t quite get a read on it. Suddenly the boy’s a mystery, go figure.

You stay there for another hour or so, quietly suffering Herald’s little questions about your career. It quickly becomes apparent he knows way more than someone who wasn’t there for any of it should. You’re not sure how to feel about that. Other then old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[my body is here and i am inside]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753261)


	22. sing it all back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You deserve worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: self-harm
> 
> [[Salt in The Wound]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_kgIJ5ffJI)

##  sing it all back

When the sun starts to drown in the ocean, you reluctantly agree to let Herald give you a hand back over to the sane side of the railing. He follows with you back to the foot of the bridge, despite your repeated insistence that you were just going straight home and to buzz off already.

You go through four taxi cabs before you feel confident enough that you’ve lost Herald to actually go home.

Home.

It isn’t much, a singular combined bedroom-kitchenette and a tinier bathroom. Pretty sure the complex had been a tourist trap motel once upon a time. It’s yours though, and there’s something surreal about that. You’ve never ‘owned’ an apartment before. You keep telling yourself you’ll properly decorate one day, but it never happens.

Flip on the lights, greet the cockroach as it scurries under the cabinet “Hi Larry,” Without really thinking about what you’re doing you walk over to the kitchenette and pull a knife out of the drawer. One of the sharp ones. Set the faucet running and then you pull back your sleeve.

You can go as far up as your elbow before anything orange shows, but in practice you can never do that anyway. A criss-cross of raised scar tissue lines your left forearm, a few still pink

Fucking hell.

Idiot.

Scum.

You deserve this.

Just when it seems like you’re getting control over your life, everything spirals away from you again. Someone’s footsteps echo from the floor above and a twinge of memory almost knocks your knees out from under you – have to brace against the counter to keep on your feet.

Gritting your teeth you hold your arm out, palm-side up. Press the knife into your skin until red wells up around the blade and your eyes water from the pain.

You’re in control now.

This isn’t – this is just punishment. Yours. Deserved. A reminder. You shift the knife down your arm, repeat the process one more time before letting it drop into the sink. Swallowing down sobs you stick your arm under the burning hot water until it starts to turn pink. Bite your tongue to keep quiet, taste of copper in your mouth.

You’ve still got weeks until showtime. Plenty of time to recover. With your good arm, you turn the water off and pull the sleeve back down. Should probably bandage the wound but fuck it – fuck you. Stagger to your bed and fall over face down.

Roll over and grab a pillow, clutch it to your chest, draw your legs up into a fetal position. No more possessions ever again. If you can’t work a mental suggestion or rely on a bribe, you’ll just have to find another way. You’re not inflicting that on another person again. You can’t. How could you?

You bury your head in an increasingly wet pillow.

Herald… that nosey doe-eyed motherfucker – fuck him! If he hadn’t shown up, would you be here right now?

You don’t want to think about it.


	23. make it shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Mortum came through, the suit is done. Better make sure it's up to spec.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[The World Is Mine]](https://youtu.be/ronlL7ix_Mk)

#  You’ll be the death of me.

##  make it shine

Finally.

Two years of research, preparation, and hard work have been building towards this.

The glove slides up your arm, comfortably snug against your skin as you buckle it into place. Basic, light-weight ablative armor plating covers a more delicate framework of wires encased in a layer of ballistic gel padding. The left gauntlet is slightly bulkier than the right, a raised nodule over the back of palm the only indication of the payload now living inside.

You flex your fingers. Stretch out and then curled into a fist. The armor is slightly more stiff than just a skinsuit. But the added protection should be worth it, and you made sure Dr. Mortum kept things as streamlined as possible. You might be several years out of shape but speed is still your main asset. 

To that end, you bend your leg at the knee, balancing on first on foot then hopping to the other. The shape of the boots is a little odd, but it’s all part of the jump jet package. Jump a little higher, fall a little slower… maybe once you get the hang of it you can add some extra oomph to a kick.

You can’t help it. The laughter. No one in this goddamn city has any idea what’s coming for it. With you to act as the muscle for Jane’s Face, maybe some goddamn changes can finally come to this damn place. They have to. After everything you’ve done already you can’t stop now. What you did you to Lady Argent, to all those other people… It won’t have been for nothing. It can’t be.

And… goddamn it feels good to feel powerful for once.

Chittering voices press against the back of your head as you pick up the helmet, turned the mirrored faceplate around and slip it over your head. The Rat-King waking up to your touch as you fasten the helmet in place, hook up the systems and bring the Heads-Up Display online. With the Rat-King to help manage basic situational awareness and other low-level maintenance tasks, you can be free to focus the bulk of your talents elsewhere.

Such as…

You hold up your left gauntlet, brushing your mind over the contents, stirring them awake. The Nanovores you had Argent steal from the vault have been safely housed inside a modified void-cage, ringing the length of the gauntlet.

Mortum claims to have successfully modified the program so that they one: wouldn’t replicate beyond their pre-set size, and two: would no longer target organic matter. You may be playing with fire, but… one forest fire was more than enough. The screaming…

You flinch, shaking your head. Clap your hand into your fist. That’s the past. It’s over and gone and it can’t hurt you anymore. Nothing can.

You should – you should make certain. Turn your attention to the limp form propped up against the garage door. A paper bag has been carefully fitted over the unconscious man’s head. No chances. Once you have a real revenue stream, you won’t have to resort to manipulating lone drunkards like this. But what’s another night lost among hundreds?

He’s an old man, a hanger-on from the days the city was still called ‘LA.’ No living friends or relatives. If the Nanovores fuck up, no one will miss him anyway.

Can feel their hum over your arm, a buzzing hive of wasps coming to life. You can do this. What are eggs for if not for breaking? Bite down hard enough on the inside of your cheek that it makes your eyes water. You turn away. Find a wooden chair a few feet to your right. There. That’ll do. Wood is organic.

The Nanovores should be able to go a decent distance on their own if need be. Might as well test that now. You outstretch your hand, coax them to life. Feel the Rat-King’s presence curl protectively around you. That’s as strange a feeling as the sharp angles and buzzing of the nanovores themselves. Can barely see them in the air, but they’re there. Good to know. Stick to using it strictly on touch then. Obfuscate the nature of the power. The metal fastenings in the chair dissolve and the wooden legs collapse in a pile on the floor.

They work. They work as advertised. Goddamn. The Nanovores return to their cage, quieting down. Obedient. Tamed. You laugh again, more than a little manic. Reach up and press back on the back of your helmet, feel out the connection at the base of the neck to the super-cool system. Mortum claims it’ll help the telepathic link between you and the Rat-King, that was the original sales pitch anyway, but you’ve had this modified slightly from the original specs to keep the whole suit cool. You’ll need it.

Stepping in front of the mirror finally and it’s… a trip. The mirrored helmet stares back, reflecting the mirror and the room. The reflective polish fades into a deep unnatural black. Had to get the paint for this imported. Technically not even a pigment. A special carbon nanotube mixture from a paint eccentric out in the UK countryside. Absorbs over 99.8% of light.

Finally you clip on your cape, pull it tight around your body. The magnet-clips make for an easy realise if it gets caught in something. You’ve used the same black that you did for the armor, adding to the whole effect by further obscuring your shape, another layer of protection between you are world.

Bonus: the carbon will protect the suit from the nanovores. The effect is… disturbing to look at. It’s almost impossible to make out the contour of the armor plating against the underlying skinsuit and systems. You lift up your hand and twist it this way and that. In the mirror it looks like your hand is changing shape, no indication of your wrist turning.

Like a black void in a roughly human shape opened up in reality. No form or definition, no shadow or highlight, just uniform black.

The light absorption means the suit will run hot in the sun. The modified cooling system will help with that, but for best results you’ll want to stick to indoors and evening or later for operations. Fine with you. Don’t care for the light anyway. The effect itself is going to be high maintenance to keep up, but the paint ended up being surprisingly affordable and you’ll want to do a check up after missions anyway. Once you’ve finished setting up your long-term base of operations it should be fine.

You curl your hand into a fist and watch the reflection shapeshift to follow suit. Two weeks to show time. Two weeks to sever the last dregs of Ariadne’s life. Have had to make some last-minute changes to the plan – nobody needs to die, as long as you make it clear to the world that they’ve got a new thing to fear in the night, that’s all that matters. 

No more running scared. No more sleepless nights fearing nightmares. No more desperate old friends trying to drag you back into a dead life. No more cowering, waiting for something to happen to you. You’re taking control of your life.

Finally.

And no one else is ever going to forget it.

You rear your fist back, and bring it down on the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[make it shine]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22068919)


	24. i think you're better than this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice relaxing coffee date where everything is completely fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Carmelo]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGzx0_fXa9I)

##  i think you’re better than this

“Oh good! I’m glad I finally caught you!”

“Ortega.” You laugh. “Not everyone is, um, glued to their phones, you know.”

“Mmm, true. But I wish you would call me back sometimes. I was starting to get worried.”

“W–worried? Why?”

“Ari…” Her voice sounds strained over the phone. “You told me you had people after you. Can you blame me for worrying if you disappear for a week? And then something Herald said–”

“I’m fine.” You huff, switch which ear you’ve pressed the phone to, “and  what’s this uh – about Herald? D–did he say something?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but–”

“Then it’s… it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Well… then that’s good. I’m glad. Actually there’s something I wanted to ask you, do you think we could meet up this afternoon?”

“We’re already on the phone right now, Ortega, just ask.”

“I know it’s short notice, but it would be safer in person.”

You have to stop yourself from laughing too hard, typical of Ortega to favor in-person. Once upon a time you might have felt the same. “Alright, alright. If you say so.”

“What about 5? Memorial Park?”

“Wow, uh – grim much?”

“Ari… It’s just a park.”

“Fine – fine.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon then.”

“Y–yeah, you too.”

You put the phone down and look at the pieces of your villain suit scattered around the storage shed. You better start packing you guess.

* * *

You slap your face lightly as you power down the sidewalk, sidestepping people with the temerity to be moving slower than you. Gotta focus. Remember: everything’s fine. You’re fine. It’s fine. She’s fine. Everything Is Fine. You don’t need to give Ortega any more reasons to be nosing into your life. You just need to get through this meeting, show how perfectly fine and normal you are and get her to back off so you can return to plotting her downfall.

You know.

Just normal villain things.

“Ari!”

You snap your head up, falter for a second and then the smile is back on your face to match Ortega’s. “D–don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me?” You laugh. A completely normal human laugh. “I always had to–to–to wait, like, half an hour for you to show up to anything.

“Ouch,” Ortega squeezes your hand and for a moment you think she might pull you into a hug and you tense up. Instead she lets go. You let your hand fall limp to your side. Ortega shakes her head. “Never going to let me live that down huh?”

“Absolutely not.” You press your lips together into a thin smile.

“Too late to say sorry?”

“It’s too late for a lot of things.” You flinch, “Uh– I mean, w–well…” You trail off.

Ortega’s smile wilts. “Ari…?”

You grip the edge of your jacket, push up your sunglasses. “Oh, w–w–what did you expect, Ortega?” So much for smiles. “Did you think you – you could… wave a magic wand and everything would be like it was before?”

Ortega frowns, doesn’t meet your eyes as she shoves her hands into her pockets in an unsettling impression of you. “Maybe? I thought things worked out really well with Angie, it was almost–”

“Stop.” Mentioning Lady Argent, twist the knife in your gut why don’t you. “That life is over. I…  _fuck_ – I told you.”

“Ariadne…” God, every time Ortega uses that name it’s like she’s driven a nail through you, tied a red thread around your wrist, cutting through the skin. She steps a little too close to you and you take a step back. “I know you’re trying to act like everything’s fine, but.. talk to me Ari, what’s going on?”

“I – I already told you.” Hiss the words through gritted teeth.

“That’s not what I mean. I could tell after you finished helping Lady Argent too. You just… seemed so…” Ortega grimaces, “hollowed out?”

You cross your arms, huff. “It always comes back to Hollow Ground with you, doesn’t it.”

She blinks in surprise. “What? Mierda!” She curses under her breath in more Spanish. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Throw your arms up in the air. “Fine!  Fine ! Are you happy!? I’m some – some hollow shell of–of–of an animal. Just leave me alone Ortega. Helping y–you out only – it only made everything worse!”

She raises a placating hand. You hate this. You hate how she’s looking at you. Like you’re damaged. Broken. “Alright, we don’t have to talk about that. But why don’t we get some coffee and a snack?”

“Coffee?” You rear back, “ _ Seriously _ ?”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get a little hungry.

You grit your teeth. Why did you even come here. What were you hoping to accomplish? “W–what? You think you can – can just throw a candy bar at me and–and–and that’ll fix everything?”

“What? Ari, that’s out of line. I just want us to sit down and try and talk things out.” She pauses, then adds, “You know, like adults?”

You step away from her, glare up at the office towers that line the park. “Th–there’s nothing to – to talk about.”

Ortega’s voice is soft, fraying at the edges with frustration. “Ari, I think we both know that’s not true. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m  _ f–fine_ , Ortega.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

You freeze up. You run a hand over your face; feel the divots of the scar on your cheek. Your make-up is fine, right? Everything still in place? Heart is pounding, can feel your stomach churn. But you can’t be sick – not now – not here. Fuck. You’ll only prove her right. Squeezing your hands tight, you spin on your heel at her, “W–what do–do–do you even  _fucking_ care what I look like!?”

Ortega blinks, surprised? Taken aback? Then her frown deepens, “Because I care about you, Ari? Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

You press your hands to your head, “G-g-goddamnit Julia! Ariadne is dead! Dead! Okay!? She–she–she’s fucking dead!” You’ve raised your voice, people are starting to stare. 

Fuck.

Fuck them.

Fuck her.

Fuck you.

You spin around to face her. “It’s been years! W–we aren’t friends anymore! You can’t just expect to – to swoop in after seven goddamn years and fix everything with–with–with a hug and a smile!”

“That is  _not_ what what I’m doing!” She’s crossed her arms in front of her now, you can see the anger in her face and your chest hurts.

“Just – Just shut up!” You snap back at her. At least if she hates you she’ll be more likely to leave you alone. Everything about her hurts in the worst kind of way; completely out of your control. 

She narrows her eyes at you. “Real mature Ari.” She huffs. “You always do this, how could I have forgotten?”

You glare back at her, anger papering over anxiety. “Do what?”

“Act like people are idiots for caring about you.”

“W–well they are!” You grab at the sides of your head, pulling at your mess of uncombed hair. “I never asked anybody to… to fucking care about me Ortega! None of you should!” You’re an object, a tool, a weapon. You don’t deserve a single kind thought sent your way; they’re all wasted effort that should have been spent on someone human.

Ortega steps towards you, “Well, newsflash Ariadne: you can’t control what other people feel!”

You face twists into a snarl “Well I c–c–” You flinch, bite down on your tongue to cut yourself off. You throw up your hands. “I don’t deserve it!” This is all wrong. She should hate you. For what you are. What you’ve done. Why can’t she see it? What’s wrong with her?

“Ariadne…” Some of the anger melts from Ortega’s face, and seeing it just makes you madder.

“Stop it!” You push up your sunglasses, cover your eyes with your hands, try not shake. You feel a little dizzy, faint. Breathing too fast. “Just stop it! Stop fucking acting like your my – my fucking mother or something!”

“Maybe somebody needs to.” Her voice is hard as Ortega steps closer to you again, and you throw out a hand to ward her off.

“You seriously think I–I–I can’t handle my own problems!?”

“Ari.” There’s strained tenor to her voice. “Can you really look me in the eye right now– say you’re taking care of yourself?”

Glare at the sidewalk through your fingers. “Th–that doesn’t matter! It’s  my life! N–not yours, okay!? It’s none of your – your goddamn business!”

You can hear her step closer to you again. “You’re my friend, Ariadne, of course it’s ‘my business,’ I care about you.”

You choke back a sob. “Y-you’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Ari…”

Your vision is getting blurry now, going to get your sunglasses wet. “…are we still friends?” The idea is absurd. That anyone could still feel that way about you.

You can feel her hesitate, arm half extended. Just what is she thinking in that static-filled head of hers? “Aren’t we, Ariadne?”

You let your whole body go limp, “I – I’m… I’m sorry, I just…” Ortega’s arms pull you into a hug and you immediately freeze up again. You let out a long, shaking breath, arms hanging limply at your sides. “I don’t want to fight you.” You say in a hoarse whisper.

“it’s going to be okay.” She lets go of you, but the memory of her hands on your back continues to burn your skin. “You know I’m your friend, right?”

You take off your sunglasses, wipe them dry with the edge of your shirt, careful not to pull up too far. “I… I don’t… um – think I know how to do that anymore, If… if I’m honest.”

You look up at Ortega, sunglasses still in your hands and she’s smiling at you, this soft, small gesture with the tilt of her head and you want to cry again. “Hey, it never stopped me before, now did it?”

You shake your head at her. without your sunglasses on the light hurts, a little pulse of panic. “I still don’t understand it.”

“I think… you get it better than you let yourself realize.” Ortega pats you on the shoulder. “Now, how about we get that coffee and cake, yeah?”

You put a weak smile on your face – rub your eyes before putting your sunglasses back on. “Yeah… Yeah, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[the space between the finish and the start]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755178/chapters/49316930)


	25. it's not your fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No amount of coffee is going to bring Sidestep back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: past suicide, emetophobia
> 
> [[Carmelo]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGzx0_fXa9I)

## it’s not your fault

You don’t usually bother with coffee, so you let Ortega pick one out for you. An iced Mocha with chocolate syrup. After a few polite sips you quietly resolve to never touch coffee again. The Chocolate brownie is better, and it comes a big enough size that you were able to split it in half with Ortega.

Sitting outside at a table on the patio, looking over the Memorial Park, you could almost forget you were in Los Diablos and not someplace out East. At least, until you look up and see the slight haze in the sky overhead reminding you: no air quality control laws.

Ortega takes a long sip of her coffee, creamer swirling in a spiral as you watch her. She puts the cup down and gives you a cautious smile. “Okay, so… take a deep breath, tell me what’s wrong?”

You bark out a laugh, sharp and bitter. Even with a brownie in you, you still feel drained out. ‘Hollow’ even.

“Ari…”

“I’m sorry – I just–” You slump over the table, head in your hands. “I–I–I don’t know. I can’t – I mean…” you glance up at her over your shades. “You’re – you’re right. There is something…” You give out a pained groan. You can’t. You can’t tell her the truth. She’ll turn you in. Maybe she didn’t do it back then, but there’s no reason not to now. You’ve done a shit job so far of proving yourself to be stable.

Or trustworthy.

Well, you’re neither of those things, so fair’s fair. 

Ortega watches you over the rim of her coffee, “Are you alright?”

You collapse, head against the table. “No. No, I’m really not.”

“And you can’t talk to me about it.”

Your throat hurts as you talk, too tight, voice pitching up too high. “I really can’t.”

“Okay.” Your staring out into the park and can’t see her face, but she sounds as exhausted as you feel. “I have to respect that.”

You close your eyes, maybe this will finally be an end to this. Thank god. “Thank you.”

“I still think…” Oh no. “…you should talk to somebody.” Oh god. “A professional.”

You pull yourself up, give her a tired look. “A shrink?”

Ortega cracks a smile, puts down her coffee to rub the back of her neck. “It helps. It really,  _ really _ helps. Trust me, Ariadne. I know.”

“W–what? You never told me you – you saw a therapist.”

“I thought you had died because of me, Ari.” Ortega’s face contorts and a twinge of guilt goes off in your chest. “You and Themmy both.”

You frown, it takes an active effort not to dismiss the idea out of hand. Memories of white walls, and bright lights and your stomach curdles. Suddenly you’re not hungry anymore. You push your sunglasses up against your face. “Th–that actually helped?”

“It did.” Ortega dips her head down to catch your eye. “It took awhile, but it really did.”

You sigh, chew on the inside of your cheek. Even if it did help, do you really deserve it? You’ve earned what happened to you. If not before, then certainly by now. And you can’t afford to stop. Compromise sure, but give up entirely? This is all you’ve got left.

“If it’s a money thing, I can pay.” You blink at her. “Sorry, I just… I want you to feel better, okay?”

Just Ortega saying that is enough to make your eyes tingle. You swallow the lump in your throat. Anyone else in the world and you could reach into their skull and wipe their concern for you away. But Ortega remains, as always, an unreadable static. And she’s…

You sigh, take off your sunglasses, blinking against the glare of the sunlight as you put them down on the table. “Alright. I… I promise that I – I’ll talk to somebody.”

Ortega sighs, and then laughs, relaxing back in her chair. “Oh, you have no idea how much of a relief it is to hear you say that.” She smiles at you – something in you makes you smile back, and for the first time in a long time it doesn’t feel like an act

“I’ll… I’ll be okay, I promise?” You bite your lip, was that a lie? “Things have just been…. really rough lately.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Ortega…” Silence fills the space between the two of you. A void threatening to swallow you both. You stare down at the crumbs on your plate, fiddling with the fork in your hands. “I… I miss her.” You confess. “All the time. I – I can’t get that – that image out of my head.”

“Ariadne…” Ortega’s voice is distant, miles and years away from because you’re back in that stairwell because – because –

_ Her hands are smoking. _

_ Her head is smoking. _

_ A new, horrific smell cuts across the corpse-stench and you have to cling to the railing as your body immediately tries to retch. This – this isn’t happening. Anathema’s invulnerable. Nothing can hurt her. There’s a scream, (yours?) as Anathema buckles to the ground and you manage to avert your eyes before she falls backwards and a disturbingly wet cracking noise hits the ground. _

“Ari, I’m…” Ortega sucks in air through her teeth, head in her hand. “I never should have… I made the wrong call. I took things for granted that I shouldn’t have. I’m so,  _ so _ sorry.”

Are those…?

Swallowing back a pained lump in your throat you reach out a hand, light brush of her arm. Ortega freezes for a second and then looks up. You can’t bring yourself to smile, to reassure. But it’s hard to believe this is an act. That this isn’t genuine Ortega, the one that so rarely lets anything show.

“...Ortega,” You croak out, voice hoarse. “It… It wasn’t your fault.”

“Nope.” Her voice takes on a forced cheeriness. She shakes her head, resetting her face. “It definitely was. I was Marshal. Both of you were my responsibility.”

You pull your hand back, frowning. How are you supposed to feel right now? You can’t even be angry at her anymore. And what is that expression on her face? You’ve fallen out practice with reading Ortega’s moods.

She gives you another smile and raises her coffee cup at you. “How do you feel about meeting up again soon? I don’t want to go another seven years without keeping in touch.”

“Y-yeah. Of course.” You smile back at her. That’ll be impossible of course. Your debut is coming up fast. But… it’s nice to pretend.

“Good. To be honest,” she rubs the back of her neck, “I was beginning to worry that I was coming off as some kind of crazy stalker.”

You purse your lips. Suddenly the chance meetings the two of you have had don’t feel so random. But… no. She wouldn’t? You shake your head. “Maybe a little. But…” A strange sort of warm tiredness fills your chest. “Thank you.”

“So…” Ortega looks at you, “There was an actual reason I called you here that didn’t involve getting into a shouting match with you.”

You tilt your head, still smiling. “Really now? I f–find that hard to believe.”

She laughs, “Hey, don’t be mean!”

“Alright. W–what is it this time? You need a telepath to help Chen find the k–keys to his power armor?”

“No! Nothing like that.” Ortega laughs again. “I wanted to ask… now that you’re retired; how do you feel like attending a proper party?”

“I’m sorry – A  _ ‘proper’ _ party?”

“There’s going to be a benefit gala coming up. At the Heroic Heritage Museum? They’re reopening it now that the reconstruction is done.”

Oh.

No fucking way.

You should be proud at how you keep your face blank to that one.

You sigh. Focus on the melting ice in your barely touched Mocha. “I– Ortega, you know I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“I know…” Ortega’s smile melts into a slight frown. “But I thought… since you’re retired now, no one’s going to recognize you.”

“On the arm of 2010’s best dressed woman?” As you soon as you say it you avoid looking at Ortega’s face, your own suddenly way too warm.

“Oh! Well, I didn’t quite mean it like that.” There’s an uncomfortable laugh. “I just thought it might be nice? And… it’s for you too, you know. You’ll have an exhibit up there.”

You squeeze you eyes shut, trying to will the unease in your stomach away. Even back in the day she was constantly pushing you to accept recognition. She doesn’t know why you can’t. Doesn’t get it. “ _ Sidestep _ has an exhibit. Not me. And Sidestep is–”

“–dead. I know.” Ortega’s voice is soft. Sad?

Ariadne can’t go to the Gala, no matter how much you might want to tell Ortega yes. You’re already planning to book yourself twice over. It’s not surprising Ortega was invited, but it’s another thing to know for certain that she’ll be there. You’re going to have to steel yourself for that fight. The idea no longer seems as satisfying as it used to.

Maybe… Ariadne can’t go, but Jane needs to get in somehow. The two of them have been flirting pretty blatantly during practices now that you’ve changed Jane’s schedule to overlap with Ortega’s. Maybe Jane could work Ortega into taking her instead? It’d be less suspicious than having to just steal an invitation.

Yeah… the more you think about this, the better an idea it seems. You can make this work.

“I’m sorry,” you peer up at her, try to smile again. “Maybe, um, maybe we can s–start with something more basic? Like… like um, a dinner or something?”

“Alright,” Ortega nods her head. “Dinner some time sounds good.”

“Let me know when – when you’re free,” You shake the mocha, jostling the ice. “I’ve got a feeling your schedule is tighter than mine.”

That gets the laugh you were going for, “Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Hopefully the city stays quiet for a while.” You smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[the space between the finish and the start]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755178/chapters/49316930)


	26. we could have been right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ortega is going to the Gala? Then you’ve found Jane’s Alibi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Night Tides] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8b5HGevIiwA)

##  we could have been right

No clouds in the sky, save for the industrial smog of Los Diablos. It looms over the city’s southern industrial district and projects. There’s always at least some smog in the air. Some of the more affluent corporations have pooled together to fund a team of boosts capable of keeping the air in the financial district clear, or at least breathable. Don’t want the tourists to shy away, so hide it somewhere they won’t go right? But it’s like sweeping the dirt under the rug if the rug was the sky.

Jane frowns as she relaxes on the stonework rim of the fountain, the mist of the water spray providing an illusion of relief from the heat. The fountain is topped with a bronze figure, a monument to some fallen hero. You might have known who it was, once, but it doesn’t matter now. No one reads those plaques anyway.

“You look deep in thought.” Ortega hands Jane an ice cream cone with some napkins: two scoops, strawberry, plain. Not your preferred choice, but it’s the details that keep the distance between you and Jane.

“Thanks,” Jane says, taking the cone. She tucks her wavy auburn hair out of the way, behind her ear, so it won’t get in the way. Seeing the the other cone in Ortega’s hand, she cocks an eyebrow. “And what on earth is that?”

“Habanero chocolate with caramel and chili powder.” Ortega grins, “Why? You want to try it?”

Jane returns the smile and shakes her head. “Ice cream and peppers? Sounds unnatural to me.”

Ortega gestures with her free arm, “Los Diablos!”

“Alright, I take your point.” Jane laughs as Ortega sits down on the rim of the fountain with her. 

The two of them sit there in silence for a while licking ice cream. A lone seagull circles over head, landing on one street light only to take off and settle on another. Damn thing can’t make up its mind. “So,” Ortega says, breaking the silence. Jane turns her attention back to the woman beside her. “You said before your work doesn’t leave much time for relationships…?”

Jane laughs again, “Look at you, remembering things I’ve said.”

“I’m just terrible that way.”

“The worst!” Jane takes another lick of her ice cream, pointedly looking at Ortega as she does it. You’ve had to sit privy to far too many of Ortega’s relationships over the years to not know exactly what pushes her buttons. The woman doesn’t stand a chance really. “I… may have said that.” Jane concedes. “Who’s asking?”

“Just me.” Ortega says. “Just wondering what keeps you so busy. You know what I do now, only seems fair.”

“Mmm…” Jane waggles her free hand, pretending to weigh her options. “It’s nothing exciting like your thing.” She shoots a glance at Ortega, a smirk creeping up her face. “I bet you’ll never guess.”

“Sounds like a challenge. What do I get if I win?”

“Hrrrm…” Jane taps her chin, making a show of racking her brain. “What about a date?”

“You wouldn’t otherwise?”

Jane leans back, she licks her cone, and looks at Ortega with hooded eyes. “Well, I can’t make time for just anyone, now can I?” The smirk returns to her face. “So you want to take a guess?”

Ortega eyes Jane up and down. “Maybe I will.” She grins. It’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling, if maybe a strange one.

Being Jane has involved dusting off a lot of old lessons and learned habits from your pre-Ariadne days. Even then using sexuality had never really progressed beyond the strictly academic until Jane, there’s a strange mixture of thrill and fear to it. It helps that’s she’s not – that she doesn’t have your… baggage. Jane is cool and confident. Secure in her place at the top of the world. 

Jane smirks knowingly at Ortega as lean back, holding what remains of her ice cream in front of her face. “You get three guesses.”

“No hints to start me off?”

“Okay then.” Jane drums fingers against stone. “Well, it’s a real cut-throat industry.”

“Every industry is cut-throat around here.”

Jane only returns a tight-lipped smile.

Ortega watches Jane thoughtfully as they both work on their ice cream. “Well. Let’s see. You’re always stylishly dressed. Outside your gym sweats I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the same outfit twice. Between that and the jewelry you’re doing pretty well for yourself financially.”

Jane doesn’t say anything, just smiles and waits. Having Ortega’s gaze on Jane; there’s something electrifying and heartbreaking about it, all at once. Not for the first time, not even in the last ten minutes, you find yourself grateful for the distance that wearing Jane grants you to your body’s own reactions.

“You don’t look like you do a lot of hard labor, yet you still put effort into keeping fit despite the lack of free time… I’ve got it.”

“Do you?”

“You work in a law office.”

Jane smiles, “Nope. Strike one.”

Ortega snaps her fingers.

“What made you think law office?”

“You’ve got a strong sense of justice.”

Jane raises her eyebrows in a skeptical look. “Do I now?” Interesting. More flattery, or…?

Ortega finishes the last of her ice cream cone as she continues to think, finally she says, “If it’s not law, then it’s something financial.”

“You tell me I have a ‘strong sense of justice’ and your second guess is I work with money?” Jane laughs, she can’t help it.

“It bothers you, I can tell.”

“Mhm.” She frowns at that. This was supposed to be fun, but Ortega’s perceptive skills are perhaps a little keener than you remember them being. Maybe it’s because Jane is the object of her affection this time? She would certainly have never looked at you this way.

Honestly, the revelation that Ortega might actually be into women in any serious capacity is still rocking your world. When it was you, –actually you, not Jane– there was always that fear, on top of everything else, that if she was interested, did that mean you weren’t woman enough to have disqualified yourself from the pool of men fawning over Ortega? What does it even mean to be interested in women as a trans woman anyway? Gender is stupid and you kind of hate it and humans for inventing it.

“Well, am I right?” Ortega asks, dragging Jane back to Earth.

“You need to be more specific than that.”

“Accounting then.

Jane purses her lips, finishing the last of her ice cream to buy time to think. Ortega leans in and Jane relents with a big sigh, making a show of being outwitted. Better to let Ortega think she got something then to encourage any further digging. “You pick the place then.”

“I was right, then?”

Jane tilts her head, “Mhm. Close enough. Debt management. I’d rather not talk about it much, to be honest.” She flashes Ortega a smug smile, “It isn’t exactly a media darling job.”

Ortega laughs, rubbing the back of her neck. You think there might be a hint of a flush there. “That’s fair, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to have a break from it now and again.”

“I get it. Rough job?”

“Honestly? It’s pretty depressing at times,” Jane admits. “Whole lot of people in this city who think you can get out of settling your debts.” Something about that sentence leaves a foul taste in Jane’s mouth. She shakes her head, “it’s never the people that deserve it who get a break either.” She puts her hand over Ortega’s, leans in against her shoulder as she twines their fingers together. “I bet things are a lot more straightforward in the hero business.”

“I wish it was.”

“Hrm.” Jane side-eyes Ortega. Where did that one come from? “Well. You won, Where are you taking me on this fabulous date?”

Ortega laughs, hand to her chest in surprise. “Oh, I have to be the one that decides?”

Jane doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head, a thin smile on her lips.

“Well, alright then. Let me think…” She doesn’t even take ten seconds before she snaps her fingers. Not doing a good job of playing it cool, are we, Ortega? “How would you like to see the more glamorous part of superhero life?”

Jane quirks an eyebrow, leaning back on her hands. “Glamorous, you say? Well… I do like glamour…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Jamais Vu] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449946/chapters/46293415)


	27. take the bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s time for one last night of drinks with the good doctor. Are she and Jane really friends are does it only seem that way for lack of having anyone else? Still, you need to share the good news with    
>  _  
>  somebody   
>  _   
>  .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Fall in Love with the Enemy] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMDeO9G4va8)

## take the bait

“You look to be in good spirits tonight, Jane.” Dr. Mortum raises her wine glass in greeting as Jane slides into the booth seat across from her. “I take it my work went over well?”

Jane’s grin is wide, a glass of her own already in hand. “I think it’s safe to say that my employer is pleased.” She raises her glass to tap it against Mortum’s and the two take a shared drink. “I can’t believe this is almost over.”

“Over, ma chérie?” Dr. Mortum’s smile betrays her play at disappointment. “No further use for my services then?”

“Oh!” Jane’s face reddens, followed by nervous laughter. “That’s not what I…” She coughs. Fuck, you need to get it together. “I mean with this whole... suit thing.” She gestures helpless between the two of them. “It’s been my life for months now.”

“Think you will stay with your current employer?” Mortum watches Jane with a practiced curiosity, taking in the whole of her face. Like it’s a skill she’s had to teach herself. Sometimes you wonder.

Jane blows a strand of hair away from her face, brushes back behind her ear. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably.” She shrugs. “The pay is good, don’t you agree?”

“I am finding it hard to disagree with you there.” She laughs. “I look forward to doing more business with you, Jane.”

“Count on it.” Jane’s smile gains a toothy edge. “You are even more talented than you say you are.”

“Oh stop, you are flattering me.”

“I only give credit where it’s due.” Jane shrugs, all false modesty, spreading her hands wide. “I’ll miss these meetings.”

“Well,” Dr. Mortum clears her throat as she leans back on her chair. “Nothing says we can not keep meeting like this, just for ourselves.”

“That’s true…” Jane matches her smile. “Though just because _our_ business is done for now, it doesn’t mean that mine is.”

“Oh?”

“There’s always another piece to move into position, my dear doctor.” Jane empties her glass and puts it down on the table. “Word of advice, doc? I’d steer clear of any museums for a while if I were you.”

Dr. Mortum’s eyebrows shoot up her head. She glances away towards the ceiling, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Your boss is a bold one, is he not?” Mortum’s been bugging you for some time now as to what that order of plastic explosives were for. Suppose you owe her at least this much of the truth.

“Boldness makes history, my dear.” Jane’s smile is grim.

“Still…” She frowns, a note of concern on the doctor’s face. “Do be careful? I’ve grown fond of having you around.”

“I’ll be good.” Jane smiles, hands jittery with excitement. “Besides, I’ve got the best alibi you can get.” She laughs. “The ex-marshal’s girlfriend? It’ll be–”

“ _Charge?_ ” Mortum cuts in, a fleeting moment of shock on her face before she composes herself. “Excusez moi, you are dating Julia Ortega? Are you… Jane, are you sure that is wise?”

Jane frowns, waggles her hand. This isn’t quite the reaction you expected. “Well.. It’s not… you know, _dating_ , dating. But she’s… she’s funny, you know? Charming, actually.” ‘Smoking hot’ is a thought that pops into your head unbidden. Where the fuck did that one come from?

“Hrm.” Dr. Mortum studies her empty glass. Her earlier congeniality gone. “I hope you know what you are doing, ma chérie… This was… your idea, was it?”

“Oh no,” Jane laughs, “This was all you-know-who’s big idea. But like I said, Ortega is actually…” Jane smiles. God, this terrible OpSec, you know. But – but you needed to tell somebody. Jane’s chest feels light every time you think about Ortega. Which is increasingly often.

Dr. Mortum’s frown only deepens. “Jane, ma – mon amié, some advice… from, one older woman to a younger?” She purses her lips, thinking over her words as Jane shifts her eyes to give the doctor her attention. “Be… careful, where you rest your heart.”


	28. weighing you down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall Steel values the benefit of a good paper trail, something that's put him at odds with the recurring mystery woman, Ariadne Becker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Seaweed] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2nTLwfd4lY)

##  weighing you down

It is 8 o’clock in the morning and Wei Chen is drinking coffee in an office while he reviews paperwork. This will continue until 11 when he will have an hour break for lunch. Upon returning, he will take another hour to review his schedule and then check on the rest of the rangers, before meetings with first the Chief of Police and then the Mayor. After that, Chen will be on duty, patrolling the city as Marshal Steel just in case something goes wrong. And something  _ will _ go wrong, because this is Los Diablos and today is a big day.

When the public dreams of being a Ranger, they don’t think about the paperwork, or the hours of boring, droning meetings, or the constant jockeying for funding and status amid a starved government system. But that’s okay, Chen, thinks. He was military. The military liked their paperwork too. Paperwork creates accountability. The Chief of Police can breathe down his neck about how Lady Argent just caused $84,000 in property damage rampaging down a mall and Chen can pull out a file the thickness of a club sandwich and go over each and every crime, vandalism, and public disturbance Lady Argent has stopped and how much money in damages have been prevented.

The five seconds of silence after doing so are some of the most satisfying.

Of course, actually getting the other Rangers to file their paperwork is like pulling teeth. Ortega at least tries but as the previous Marshall really shouldn’t be making so many basic errors. Argent still refuses to see the value in it, even after it’s literally saved her job. Herald’s the only one to really approach the subject with any enthusiasm, perhaps… too much enthusiasm.

Hence, Wei Chen increasingly finds his days on the job eaten up, not by actively fighting crime and injustice, but in an office filing paperwork, bored to death by every second of it. Truly, Chen considers, heroism comes in many forms.

A manilla folder is shoved in front of his face, and Chen follows the silver hand grasping it up to Lady Argent’s metallic face. “It’s done, now stop bugging me about it.”

Chen takes the folder, flipping through it. When he finishes he puts the folder aside, on top of the ‘to-file’ pile. “This is a month late.”

Crossing her arms, Lady Argent leans back and stretches to her full height. “Are you going to give me a ‘F’, Chen? It’s done now. Every sordid little detail for your buddies in city hall.”

Chen sighs. It’s too early for the Argent Hour. He needs more coffee. “You know as well as I do that none of them actually read our reports.”

Lady Argent snorts and throws her hands up in the air, “Then it doesn’t matter, does it!” Before Chen can say anything, she storms off. “I’m going out on patrol now.” She says, not looking back.

Chen sighs into an empty coffee mug. Ever since the possession incident, Lady Argent has been on edge, irritable even for her standards. Not without justification of course, but this is one wound time does not seem to be healing. Ortega should have never brought in an outside consultant without discussing it with him first. Knowing that the alpha-level telepath, Locus, was behind the attack only opens up more questions.

Lady Argent is just as likely to kill the poor girl before the Rangers can get any meaningful answers out of her. And Chen needs those answers if he’s going to keep his team safe. To say nothing of just  _ who _ Ortega brought in.

The woman with no paperwork. Who repeatedly refused to submit to a government background check despite how transparently desperate she was to join the Rangers. Presumably an assumed name, considering she looked more Irish than Greek if anything. No ties to anyone, be it friends or family. She seemed to be so obviously a spy of some kind it was almost insulting.

And then Heartbreak happened. And with it, new questions as Steel tried to unravel the mystery. Piece together the pieces she’d left behind. Right up until he… 

But now she was back. Back from seven years in the grave with no explanation. Ortega had just… found her in a diner like one finds a stray cat in an ally.

He was going to need more coffee.

Wei Chen is not ten feet from the break room when he realizes there’s a voice he doesn’t recognize, and he slows to a stop, running over every possibility in his head. A friend of Ortega’s? Someone from City Hall? Why hadn’t he been notified? Has the building been compromised?

Wait.

Chen cocked an ear.

Was that singing?

It was. It has been hushed at first, but now had gotten louder. A little breathy and straining on the higher notes maybe, but..… Chen’s brow creased. It’s been a long time since he’s heard that voice sing.

Chen briefly considers turning around and going back to his desk. Unfortunately, Wei Chen is Marshall, there’s no one else to pass the buck to. Handling two prickly mystery women in one day was a big ask. He doesn’t bother trying to be quiet as he enters the break room. If it’s who he thinks it is, it wouldn’t make a difference.

And he’s right, it is who he thinks it is.

Ariadne Becker.

She stops singing before he can even turn at the doorway. The whole scene gives Chen an unsettling feeling. For a brief moment it’s like the last seven years haven’t happened. Then it fades, reality reasserts itself and there’s the ghost standing against the far window, staring back at him in the doorframe. Seven years older, and it shows; in the creases of the face. Dark circles under the eyes, no longer any effort put into her hair, and only the barest gestures to what used to be a full face of make-up. Her clothes even shabbier than before.

“Can’t say I’m familiar with that one.” Chen offers in a neutral tone, diplomatic. No need to set her off, yet anyway.

He catches the briefest flash of surprise on Ariadne’s face before her expression hardens. “Come off it Chen.”

“For the record, I don’t think anyone actually minded your singing, back then.” Chen shrugs, then adds as an afterthought, “You were never very good at hiding it anyway. It was a pretty open secret.”

Ariadne’s glower darkens into a full on glare. “Just – just want do you w–want, Steel?”

Chen sighs, let the record show he tried. “Why are you here, Becker.”

Ariadne crosses her arms, leaning back against the glass. “Was, um – was seven years not enough for you? Were we shooting for a – a world record here?”

Chen’s mouth turns into a tight frown. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

It’s too early for this. Chen closes his eyes for a moment, then makes his way for the coffee machine. Hopefully there’s something still left in the pot. “I thought we had a mutual understanding that you would stay away from the Rangers.” He pauses, then adds, “Considering your retirement.” The coffee pot is empty. Of course.

As Chen goes through the motions of setting up the machine for a fresh cup, he hears a snort from behind him. “Tell th–that to Julia.”

Chen glances back at Ariadne. “What was that?”

“I said tell that to Ortega, she’s the–the–the one that wanted to meet me here.”

“I’ll have a talk with Ortega about this, she–“

“No! I mean, um-” Ariadne’s voice trails off as Chen pours out a cup of ground beans into the filter. “Actually, I – I had something I needed to ask her too.”

Chen turns away from the coffee machine as it whirrs to life, shifting his focus back on the mystery woman. “You need advice. From Ortega.”

There’s a hint of color in her face as she scowls, “I – I never said it w–was advice.”

“Well you’re out of luck. Ortega won’t be in the office all day.”

The only sound cutting through the tense atmosphere is the coffee pot filling. Finally, Ariadne says, slowly, carefully, “Did – did she say…  _ why _ ?”

“I told her to.” Chen states.

“W–what? Why?”

“That’s Ranger business.” Chen watches her face, Ariadne isn’t nearly the poker player she imagines herself to be, and Chen can tell her mind is running to twenty different places.

Finally, she says, “It’s… because of the, um, the Gala tonight, isn’t it.”

Chen doesn’t say anything. Tries not to think of anything. Instead focusing on the feeling of having a warm cup of coffee to hold.

“I thought so.” Ariadne taps her fingers along her arm. Did she pull it from his mind after all? Chen was never sure what to believe about the extent of her ability. The Nanosurge had suggested there was more going on there. “She, um, she tried to invite me, y–you know.”

Chen arcs an eyebrow. Underline that mental note to talk to Ortega tomorrow.

“You’ll be happy to know I – I turned her down. I’m done with this stuff.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

Ariadne doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Chen picks up his coffee mug, the steam pouring out the top. Without waiting for it to cool, he takes a drink, letting the hot liquid scald on its way down. Well. might as well make one last effort at an olive branch. “Do you need help?” Chen offers.

The response comes back a little too quickly. “N–no.” Ariadne makes a face. “Absolutely not.”

Chen waits her out, silent.

“Do you, um – ever…” Ariadne purses her lips, searching for the right word, “do you ever feel like you’re m–making the wrong choice?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

Chen watches Ariadne stare down at her hands, a finger tracing patterns in her pant leg. “About like… w–what – what if one day you turned left down the street instead of a right and like, um. S–suddenly your whole life was… different. Better, even.

Chen takes the time to refill his mug before responding. When he does speak his words come slowly, advice and words of wisdom aren’t his strong suit. “At some point… if you want to survive, you have to give up on those hypotheticals. It’s one thing to learn from the past but-” Chen pauses to take a sip from his mug. “It’s the present moment that matters. That’s where change is actually possible.”

Ariadne’s expression darkens, and not for the first time Chen wonders what Los Diablos most infamous recluse is doing for a living these days.

“If you want to retire, then retire. There’s no shame in that.” Chen presses on. “Commit to a thing. Don’t let Ortega drag you into a half-life.”

Ariadne stares at the floor in front of her for a while, tracing patterns in her pant leg, a pensive expression on her face. Finally she drops her hands to her side and straightens up. “I th–think that helps... actually. Not what I – I came here for but… thanks Chen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [let the record show he tried] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086265)


	29. bright lights might blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it. All that’s left is for Jane to set the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Broadway] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egz-GbURuw4)

##  bright lights might blind

Jane’s hand shakes in Ortega’s as she steps out of the limousine. Have you ever done something quite like this before? No – well, maybe once, back when you were a loyal drone. You cling to that thought, let it bring a smile to Jane’s lips. Keeping order is the last thing on your mind tonight.

Cameras flash as Jane’s date walks her down the carpet and into the building. It’s disorienting. You would be in a full-on panic attack, but Jane handles the whole affair cool as can be. “You’re a popular woman, Ms. Ortega.”

Ortega laughs at that, not relaxing until both of you step inside. “I have to admit… it’s been a long time since I’ve gone out with anyone. I hope you’re okay with… all this.” She gestures back towards the prying cameras, pinned safely outside. “Didn’t think I was still a hot topic.”

That gets a smirk, “Don’t sell yourself short.” Jane winks and leads the way pass the check-in. “I…” Jane winces, puts a hand to her head. That’s weird – for a moment the foyer looked post-apocalyptic.

“You okay there?” Ortega takes her hand again, guiding her over to the wall and away from the flow of guests coming in. “You just looked like you saw a ghost.”

“I… um…” Jane coughs, throat suddenly dry. “Y–yeah. I’m fine. Just… Just nerves, you know? First time.”

“First time?”

“At a party – a gala!” Jane’s face burns red to her ears. “That’s what I meant. Some of these people look like they make more in a day then I do in a year.”

“Oh,” Ortega laughs. “Trust me, they aren’t so impressive if you actually talk to them.” She puts her hand over her mouth as she whispers, “Wouldn’t recommend it, personally.”

“You know how to charm a girl.” Jane laughs, a weak smile on her face. “Guess I’ll just have to talk to  _ you _ all night.”

“I’ve got an idea?”

“Y–yeah?”

Ortega jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “You want to grab some drinks and then take a tour? I bet it’s less crowded out in the exhibit halls.”

“Good plan.”

–––

The two of them mill through the empty halls in an increasingly uncomfortable silence. Jane’s eyes slide over props and mannequins. Names and costumes that might have meant something to you once but to Jane they feel as real as dinosaur bones.

Jane tries to smile, but it feels wrong– fake. “Well, you seem a bit more distracted than usual.” She flashes her eyes to the Castrofiend display and grimaces, not the reassuring sight she was looking for. Then on impulse, she adds: “Actually, well – I saw you with someone else a while back. In the park?” She tilts her head, inquisitive, suspicious. “It looked… she looked pretty intense.”

What are you doing? You idiot. You moron. You fool.

“The park? Oh. Ariadne…” Jane’s heart sinks hearing her say ‘Ariadne’ in that tone of voice. Ortega sighs, shaking her head. It’s hard to get a read on her expression. “That’s…”

“Your ex?” Jane asks, slipping the word in like a sharpened knife. Her heart is pounding in her throat, but she does a good job of hiding it, keeping her face only just south of neutral.

Ortega shrugs, is… is she embarrassed? “Not exactly.” She reaches an arm up to scratch at the back of her head, not meeting Jane’s gaze. “We were friends…? Years ago. And then, well, I had thought she died.”

She did die, you want to correct her.

Jane narrows her eyes. “And she can tell that you’re just, ‘being friendly’?”

Her response is a single sharp ‘hah’. “Honestly? I think she’d rather I leave her alone.”

“So why don’t you?” Jane frowns. God. Why doesn’t she? “Like you said – it was years ago.” Jane crosses her arms, leans in towards Ortega.

“I’m worried about her,” Ortega’s response comes a little too fast. She won’t look at Jane, resumes walking down the hallway. You know that tell. That used to be your tell.

Jane has to pick up the pace to keep up with her, gritting her teeth. “You’re… worried? So. Should I be worried as well then?” Power-walking in heels? Your own body would be wobbling all over, but Jane has no issues keeping up.

“Why? Oh.” Ortega stops and you almost step right into her. “Oh, Jane,” She turns to face her, shaking her head. “No, you don’t have to be worried about anything, it’s not like that. We’re just…” There’s a strange expression on Ortega’s face, one you can’t read. “We’re just old friends, there’s nothing there.”

Of course there’s nothing there. In fact, why are you having this conversation? What are you trying to do here? Jane is the one that can have a relationship with Ortega. You absolutely can not. That’s basic inescapable reality.

Jane softens her expression, lowers her voice. “What did she use to be like?”

What does she really know or care about you anyway?

Ortega starts walking again, slow enough for Jane to keep pace now. There’s a suggestion of a smile on her face. “Difficult. Er, I mean – it was difficult to get close to her at all. And… it’s not like were were an official item back then.” It’s lucky Ortega isn’t looking at your face – Jane’s face when she says that. Ortega hesitates, “I just… really cared about her.”

“So…” Jane drags out the ‘o’, looking around. There’s nobody else this far into the museum yet it looks like. Probably all too busy drinking their tits off. Fucking hell. You could use a drink yourself.

This would be an excellent chance to change the subject, get back on track. Ask her about how things are as hero, transition to the rest of the Rangers. Easy-peasy.

Instead of doing any of that, Jane asks, curious, “So, why didn’t it work out, then? What, didn’t she like women?”

Oh God damnit. But of course you have to pursue this now. Jane doesn’t let things go. Her woman might have divided loyalties? Gotta follow that thread.

“You know what?” Ortega looks thoughtful, “I’m… not sure? I thought she did, but it’s hard to tell. She’s a very private woman. And well, I was… scared, I suppose.”

Jane covers her mouth, trying not to laugh. “You? Scared?”

Scared?

Scared??

Ortega raises her hands, defensive. “I wasn’t exactly out then. And I was dating men at the time.” She tilts her head. “I felt like I had a role to live up to, and, you know, I was told I needed a boyfriend for the newspapers.”

“Oh?” Jane frowns at that, raises an eyebrow. “So you always do what people tell you to do?”

“I’m not the woman I used to be.” Ortega laughs, bitter, or are you projecting? Wishing? “I’ve learned to not let other people run my life like that anymore.”

“So… what? What’s your goal there?” Jane crosses her arms, leans to the side. “You planning on fixing what you screwed up back then? Is that what this is about?” 

Ortega gives Jane a look, equal parts hurt and shocked. “I…” Ortega flinches, shakes her head. “I’m here with you, the past is the past.” She sounds uncomfortable as she says it. Uncertain?

Wait.

Are… are you sabotaging… yourself here?

You can feel a need to scream from deep within Jane’s body. You’ve wanted to scream throughout this entire conversation in second-hand embarrassment for yourself. Why are you doing this!?

Ortega abandoned you, threw you away.

You don’t want anything from her anymore.

You don’t.

Absolutely not.

Whatever the two of you  _ might _ have had died with Ariadne, thrown out a window. Not that it was  _ ever _ anything more than simple friendship. That’s all. All it ever was! Nothing more!! Fuck! Fuck her!!!

She means nothing.

She’s been nothing but a pain.

She thought she could just walk her way back in your life, and what?

Does she really feel guilty? For what? Failing you? Turning you in?

You don’t know.

You can never know.

Years ago not knowing Ortega’s thoughts was a comfort. She was someone you could pretend to have a normal ‘human’ relationship with. Someone who’s thoughts wouldn’t immediately betray every nasty little observation about you. Now it’s another log in the fuel for your nightmares.

You might want to scream, but Jane doesn’t– can’t. Jane just purses her lips in a tight slash, not buying Ortega’s assurances. “If you say so.”

She turns away from Ortega, and whatever she might have said next goes out the window at the sight of it: Sidestep’s display.

Your display?

You steal a quick glance at Ortega, did she bring you here on purpose? No. No, it’s just a coincidence. It has to be.

There’s a little plaque and then a much larger board on the wall next to the mannequin listing out your – no,  _ her _ greatest ‘accomplishments.’ There’s a whole cut-out section talking about the Nanosurge. Guess there’s no need to protect the secret of her telepathy now that she’s dead (Doesn’t stop the LDPD from still claiming partial-credit). Assholes. It calls her early death a ‘tragedy.’

You feel sick and for once Jane feels it too, and you have to grip the guard rail to steady herself. Why aren’t you dead? Why haven’t you been chopped up for spare parts in a hospital somewhere? Why are you still here? Sidestep shouldn’t be up there, she’s no hero. She couldn’t even save herself. All that’s left is echoes; a ghost, a faint hope for revenge to keep you putting one foot in front of the other. Something bitter and twisted and wrong wrong wrong.

If Sidestep was still alive, she’d be the first in line to punch you in the face. It’s hard to argue you wouldn’t deserve it.

There’s a hand on your arm and Jane looks up to see Ortega watching her with concern. “Are you alright?”

“It’s nothing.” Jane shakes her head hard, whipping her hair out of place. An hour’s work taming this hair into curls undone in seconds. Clear the thoughts from your mind. Focus. Don’t get distracted. She chews her lip. “It’s this whole place, I guess. It makes me feel…” Jane frowns, “Insignificant?”

“Insignificant?” Ortega mirrors back, tilting her head as she looks at Jane.

“I mean…” Jane gestures a limp hand towards the curve of the exhibits against the wall. Ghosts you might have known once. “All this weird world.” She frowns, grips the railing tighter with her other hand. “I’m just a nobody.”

“That’s not true.” Ortega raises her voice, matching your own. “You are very far from being a nobody.”

Jane wants to laugh, smile in charmed embarrassment, but you suppress it. “Sorry, sorry.” She sighs. “I didn’t mean for things to get this weird. I just wanted to have a bit of fun.”

“I know what you mean,” Ortega scratches the back of her head. Embarrassed?

Well, Jane did just finish implying Ortega might be having a thing with another woman. Ortega herself is your only real-world model here but that seems like a mood killer.

“Maybe it wasn’t the best of choices to go looking around in here. I know you said you’re okay with what I do for a living, but actually seeing it is a bit disconcerting.” Ortega offers as a concession, she’s too nice for her own good. Fuck.

“It’s just mannequins,” Jane flashes a smile, waving a hand dismissively, “with bad fashion sense at that.”

“That’s true.” Ortega laughs, relaxes. “You have no idea how true that is.” You brace yourself for Ortega to launch into one of her favorite stories about Steel.

It doesn’t come. 

Huh. She always loved telling that story.

Jane lets go of the guard rail, feeling a little more steady on her feat now. “You have a much more interesting life than I do.” She sweeps a hand at the exhibits for emphasis. You might know better than to glorify hero life, but Jane wouldn’t. “I mean, you get to be a part of all this.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t feel that interesting to me. It’s just work. Granted,” Ortega raises a hand in concession, “the uniform is a bit weirder than most. But once you live this, it really loses its sheen.”

“Hmmm. I find that hard to believe.”

Honestly, I’m a lot more curious about you.”

Jane’s face quirks into a smile, a fresh crop of butterflies in her stomach.. “Oh? I find that even harder to believe.”

“Really?” Ortega returns the smile, lets it go wider. “I mean, that’s partly why I invited you here? To get to know you better.”

Jane pouts, “Only partly?”

“Well,” Ortega gives Jane a sly look. “That is traditionally the part that comes first.” You know that look, if only as a kind of second-hand smoke from always being in her orbit. The look in her eyes, the twitch of her lips, the way she carries herself, how her full attention shifts…

Now it’s aimed straight at Jane. Her heart is pounding. She tucks her hair away behind her ear, smiles back with a nervous energy.

Flirting was one thing, going out on like this was one thing. It was all part of the game. Why not have a little fun if you were going to be keeping tabs on Ortega anyway, right? It was harmless. Was supposed to be harmless.

It’s suddenly become way too real. The way she leans in toward Jane. Jane, doesn’t look away. She wants to lean in, wants to step forward. For a moment you can see yourself doing that; stepping forward, and it’s your reflection, not Jane’s, in the mirrored walls, grabbing Ortega by shoulders, head tilted slightly up to kiss her on the lips.

You don’t do that. Can’t do that. Could never do that. You want to run. But Jane’s not that kind of girl. She’s everything you’re not. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t break eye contact. Stands her ground. Dare the other party to blink away first.

Jane isn’t the type to back down.

No one blinks

No one stops.

It’s not fair:

Your first kiss; it’s not even yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Jamais Vu] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449946/chapters/46293415)


	30. i did it to myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. Oh fuck. Shit. Piss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts
> 
> [ [Did It To Myself] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_pICv1FxnY)

##  i did it to myself

Jane pulls back first, lips parted to catch her breath. “W–wow.” Her voice is small. Suddenly she feels so small in Ortega’s arms, holding her close still.

“You okay there?” Ortega looks down at her, concern creeping into her face. “That… wasn’t too forward of me, was it?”

Jane licks her lips, a hint of Ortega’s perfume still in her nose. Nothing about the moment feels real. A heady daze. “I’m… it was fine? S–sorry I just…” Ortega lets go of her and Jane takes a step backward, a hand to her face.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I – um. I just… I just need to…”

“The restrooms are back that way,” Ortega points up the hallway. “You need some alone time?”

“Y–yeah. Um. Sorry.”

“No. Jane – it’s… I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, tries to smile but doesn’t quite make it. “S’not your fault. It was… it was nice. I just…” She coughs. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Don’t look at her face. Don’t read her expression. Hurt? Confused? Your own head – Jane’s head – feels like it’s going to split in two. Why the hell did you do that? No – why the hell did you react like that? What is – what are you – fuck. Idiot. Stupid fucking idiot.

You want to do it again.

You feel sick to your stomach at the thought of that.

Jane blinks tears out of her eyes as she power walks down the hall, heels clacking against the polished tile. Take a few minutes. Recompose herself. Then, before rejoining Ortega: plant the charges. This is the perfect chance for it, if nothing else.

You’ve been thinking about it since you stole the plans months ago. Where to place explosives to maximize damage, when exactly to set them off… everything’s been planned in advance. Your own body is parked under a tarp in a truck half a block from the event – there’s no turning back.

You can’t go back.

This is it.

This is the end.

You can’t apologize for what you’ve done but –

You can make sure it never happens again.


	31. blade with no handle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your opening show is something no one is going to forget. You’ll make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts
> 
> [ [Warsaw] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vv9VGgwy-JU)

##  blade with no handle

People scream caught between fleeing the building and rubbernecking the disaster. Smoke billows out shattered windows, part of the ceiling of one wing sags inward dangerously.

Hanging back in the shadow you take a moment to skim the scattered thoughts. The Rat-King curls around you, helping sort through the chaotic notes. Glad to have it here. Don’t know if you’d be able to keep your head straight doing this on your own. People are scared, frightened but you’re not picking up anyone in serious danger or harm. Breathe a sigh of relief. You guessed right then. Jane planted the charges correctly.

No one  _ needs _ to die tonight.

Almost no one.

You unhook smoke grenades from your belt, one for each hand. Pull the pins and roll them into the crowd. Smoke quickly fills the street and square. People coughing, hands over their mouth in renewed panic.

Silently you step out of the shadow. The crowd parts before as you telepathically urge them aside. As you step free of the crowd the smoke starts to clear and all eyes are on you. Your heart pounds in your ears. Behind your mirrored helmet no one knows you are. You can finally be what you were always supposed to: a ghost. A hollow, empty void.

A security guard draws his sidearm, training on you. “What is this? Don’t come any closer!”

Without a word, you turn to face him as two of his buddies take up flanking positions. Could those pistols pierce your armor? With a lucky shot, maybe. But these are guys are barely even trained. They’re security theatre. Barely a threat.

Better put them down before a stay shot hits someone in the crowd.

Let’s see how those boosters work then.

Tense your legs, and the one guard shakes his pistol, yelling at you stay back. Idiot. With the Rat-King’s help you grab all three of them in a single looping note, hold them still. You dash to the first one, swing your leg up to kick the gun out of his hand, in one pendulum motion you swing your fist down on his neck driving him to the ground. Slide to the next one and repeat.

The third one breaks free of your hold before you reach him. Backs up and drops the gun from his hand, begging for mercy. You snap your arm out and smash him face-first into the ground anyway. Can’t risk anyone getting funny ideas.

You clap your hands together, dusting them off. That was… shockingly easy.

Alright then. Part two:

You kick the open double-doors open. You are doing this. This is really happening. You’re going to trash the exhibit and the Rangers alike. You aren’t going to be a victim anymore. No more nightmares, no more running, no more living every moment in fear.

You are the one in control now. 

It’s time to jump.

It’s hard to breathe, like a bad smog day, pushing through the fear and panicked thoughts as you scan the atrium. The Rat-King curls around you, chittering in rhythm with the song running through your head. …Is it learning to mimic your own mental wall? It doesn’t matter. It’s just as much a tool as you are. Whatever makes it happy.

You kick over the punch table. A woman screams, clinging to her date as red stains her white ball-gown. Everyone backs away from you.

They’re scared.

Scared of you.

It’s exhilarating.

It’s terrifying.

You hate that you love this.

That this is what it took to finally feel alive again. Here at the end.

You take a breath, bracing yourself. You’ve got to get these people out of here. Before something happens – before you happen to them. You reach and the Rat King reaches with you, swooping up scattered panicking thoughts into a cacophony, you hold the notes and stretch them to silence. “Out!” You encompass the room with an arm and then thrust a finger at the open door, adding a mental push to your command. One by one by twos by threes, the reception hall empties out, little twangs of fear and panic going ‘sproing’ under your grip.

You don’t let go, don’t take a breath, until the room is almost empty. Finally. Now you can get to work. On your way out of the reception you make a point to kick the cake over. Bits of frosting stick to the sole of your boot.

You can sense a few stragglers scattered through the building. As long as they don’t get in your way, you don’t need to worry about them. The exhibit hall is easy to find. It wasn’t even half an hour ago you were here as Jane. Talking with Ortega. About you.

Stop it. Don’t get distracted.

The real goal here is wiping out yourself, but you can’t give the game away before it even starts. And anyway, this hall is grotesque. A monument to the dead. Just let them rest already. What ones that aren’t dead in body are dead in soul.

You don’t want to think about which one you are.

Does it matter? You’ll be both before long.

If being Ariadne and visiting the same places Jane has been is disorienting, then tracing Jane’s steps now – inside your new skin – feels like something else entirely. Liberating. Giving yourself permission. Break the glass, kick over dioramas. Send out the Nanovores to swallow mannequins whole. Bend the plaques, tear down the signs.

Sidestep is the last one you touch. You know it’s just a mannequin under the mask but you feel like she’s judging you. For proving everyone right. For proving how wild and dangerous and terrible you are. She can’t understand, not yet. It doesn’t matter that she would be right. You’re a broken hollow husk in the end after all.

They were right, you deserved it. 

It doesn’t matter what Ariadne Becker would have thought, she’s dead. You’re just the ghost come to collect it’s due.

You pull Sidestep off her stand, holding her up by the neck and squeezing until the head pops off and rolls away. The Nanovores take care of the rest, reducing the human shape to dust. Did you tell them to do that? It feels good. Or no – not good, but right. What she deserves. What they all deserve for trying to dredge up a past that never existed. Putting a bunch of lies on a pedestal and calling it a hero.

You shake the dust off your hand and take the chance to observe your handiwork. Newspaper clippings and old photographs scattered across the floor. Picking one up you stare at it. Anathema and Sidestep. Themmy’s face is bright and smiling, Sidestep is hidden under her mask but you can see the smile by the lines under the cheekbones. When was this? You can’t even remember.

Don’t feel anything to look at it, at her, the both of them together.

Just empty.

The photograph dissolves in your hand.

The Rat-King pulls your attention to up and behind you. Herald? 

Fine.

You’re going straight to hell anyway, might as well drag the rest of them down screaming with you.

He swoops down at you in a full-speed ramming motion. You keep your back to him until the last moment, stepping out of the way. Herald goes crashing into the shattered glass display case, crashing through the wall and into the next room.

What is this, amateur hour?

You step up to the hole in the wall, shaking your head as Herald gets back to his feet, pulling himself out of a pile of debris. As soon as he sees you he freezes. Behind your helmet you roll your eyes, jab a single gloved finger at him. “Outside.” It’s the first word you’ve spoken tonight and it feels strange hearing your voice run through the vocal distorter. Scrubbed of timbre into a hollow, empty sound.

You point over your shoulder and turn your back on him. Let your cape swirl around you. Don’t wait for Herald to decide. He’ll either play along or he won’t. It doesn’t matter to you. He’s not a threat.

Part three it is.

In the museum courtyard newscopters hover overhead, battle for space with police copters running searchlights across the ground. Could you get anymore stereotypically Los Diablos than that?

The crowd presses back, giving you space as you step into the middle of red carpet. Hands on your hips, waiting for Herald. They want a show? You’ll give them a goddamn show.

Herald shoots through a skylight and into the air above. Your cross your arms and make a show of tapping your foot. Mentally you reach out and snare your hooks into Herald’s mind. He’s confused, but determined.

Already weary from a protracted argument today? Tsk, tsk. Poor baby. You’ll give him something to cry about.

Pull at his thoughts and his head snaps in your direction, steeling his resolve. Has to be the hero, has to save the day. Doesn’t even know who you are, what you’re doing here. But dressed like that? Definitely up to no good.

He swoops down towards you, ready to tackle you to the ground.

Only, oops! You’re standing a foot to the left of where he thinks you are. He crashes to the ground, sending onlookers scattering in a panic as he slides into the crowd.

Oh Herald. You should really be more careful.

Tsking you turn to face him, arms crossed behind your back. Let him get to his feet again. Are the cameras filming this? Their hero making a fool of himself? Herald rubs his jaw, shaking the stars from his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You don’t answer.

He narrows his eyes, staring at his reflection in your helmet. “Who are you?”

You don’t answer.

Herald hesitates, waiting. When an answer doesn’t come he balls his hands into fists, tensing up. “Fine then.” He’s psyching himself up. There’s a familiar feeling. You’re not scared, are you Herald? Of course not. You’re a big boy.

He takes up to the sky again. Planning to harry you? Draw out the fight until backup arrives? First smart thing he’s done all day. Your HUD tracks his flight path across the night sky while you skim his thoughts.

To bad for him, you’ve got appointments to keep. Snare your hooks in him again, wrap a discordant note tight around his mind and you can see him falter on your HUD. Shaking his head to try and clear his thoughts he comes down at you again.

Disappointing. You can’t show mercy. Not here. Not now. Lest you get shown mercy in return. There’s no coming back from this.

You hold out your cape and he hits it face first. The fabric pops off your shoulders and swings around wrapping wonderbread into a blinded mess as he carries forward, crashing into a parked sports car and setting off the alarm.

Flailing Herald tries to get himself free. He’s not fast enough. You kick him back against the hood of the car. Grab one side of the cape and yank it free, sending Herald spinning. Reattaching your cape, you bring him to a stop with a boot on his chest. Push down hard enough to make the windshield crack.

His shoulder doesn’t look right. Dislocated? You press down and get a scream for your trouble. Pick up the sensation of grinding bone. He’s bleeding from a cut along his forehead, blood running down into his eye.

“Please–”

You cut him off with another press. More cracks in the windshield. Scrambling hands grab at your boot, trying to grab hold but he has no leverage like his. You let up your foot, stand over him on the hood of the car.

He lays there, limp, but still awake. Still a potential threat.

It’s never enough to simply ‘defeat’ an enemy. There needs to be nothing left. Just a skull you can nail to fencepost. Let everyone know the cost. You stomp down on Herald’s arm. He bites his tongue, face contorted in pain.

Trying not to scream? Hrm...

You let up and he tries to pull away. There we go – Your boot comes down on his knee, and something goes crack. Herald twists under your, a pained scream filling the air. You kick him in the side of the stomach and roll his body off the car to the ground.

The crowd gathered around you is frozen in shock. Fixated. Horrified? Fascinated? How much do they really care about Herald? Not enough to do anything.

Is this entertaining to you, you sick fucks? You excited about what a goddamn scoop you’ve gotten tonight? You jump off the car, stand over Herald’s crumbled, bleeding form. Is he out cold yet?

Better be. For his own sake. You raise your foot up.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

You freeze. It would appear Ortega has finally joined the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [little plastic woman (part ii)] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401772)


	32. this is freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You knew this moment was coming for two years now, if not the form it would take. If Julia Ortega wants to stop you, she’s going to have to kill you. - tw: suicide attempt, thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Game Over] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pnqvwYZhJA)

##  this is freedom

You duck under the fist aimed straight at your head. Spin and twist away from the follow up knee strike to your ribs. Crackling electricity sparks dangerously close. Dodging backwards you try and put some distance between the two of you.

“Get away from him, you scum.” Ortega spits on the ground, fists raised. She looks absolutely filthy, covered in smoke, ash, and rubble and her dress torn off at the knees. Has she been helping people evacuate? No wonder she took so long.

There’s just the briefest glimpse back towards Herald’s prone form before she refocuses on you, raising her fists.

Silently you raise your own, planting your feet.

The two of you stand there, maybe five feet apart, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Shame about the dress.” You say.

That throws her off, face crinkling. “Wha–” She doesn’t get to finish, jumps out of the way as you swing your fist down at her. Lighting crackles in her fist as she punches you in the shoulder. Warning lights in your suit go haywire as the insulation struggles to deal with the charge. Still, you barely feel it.

You shift your feet catch Ortega’s follow up blow and pull her off her balance. She hits the ground and rolls out of the way of your foot. Bounces back to your left. Sidestepping out of the way of her counterattack you clip her across the face, sending her reeling.

She’s trying to lure you away from Herald. That’s fine. You don’t actually care about him. Static electricity runs up her arms as she watches you. Waits for your next move. The way she looks at you – like you’re a threat… good.

In five years of working with Charge, not once did Sidestep ever come out on top while sparring with her. She was always the better fighter. You’re counting on that now. Come on Ortega. Put a stop to this already. Be the goddamn hero.

“So,” Ortega smirks, confident as always. “What’s all this about?”

You don’t answer, keep circling, looking for an opening. Waiting for a move.

“Somebody upset they didn’t get invited?”

You can’t stop yourself. “I was.”

She widens her eyes in mock surprise. “I see! Don’t think you’ll get invited back though. Hope your getting your money’s worth.”

You shake your head. “Not here for fun.”

“Oh good then!” Ortega’s voice is light, dripping venom. “And here I was worried you just brutalized people for kicks.” She darts forward, an exploratory jab. You twist away. Match it with a strike of your own. She blocks it with her arm, pushes back. You hop away. Wait for another opening.

Come on, what’s her problem? “You need to try harder than that.”

She watches you, focused. “Could say the same for you. That fancy armor looks like it’s compensating for something.”

She’s trying to throw you off, get you upset. She needs to try harder than that. You shrug your shoulders. “Yes.”

Ortega blinks and the smug grin returns. “Good on you for being honest at least.” She darts forward again, going for a grab this time. You counter, twist under her grip. Almost get her off the ground when an elbow to your neck sends you to the ground.

Toss her to the side and she rolls back to her feet. You rub your neck, check for weak points. Lucky shot? You should already be on the ground by now. Why isn’t she pushing harder?

“Since you’re being honest,” Ortega’s voice gets your attention again. “Anything else you care to share? A name, maybe?”

“No.”

You take the lead this time. She needs to take this seriously. Go for the kill already. It feels like the world slows down around the two of you as you trade blows. Duck and weave, dodge and parry, the two of you circle around each other. Your breath heavy in your ears. Is she trying to tire you out?

No! Not good enough!

The next time she gets close you grab her arm and pull her off balance before she can register what’s happening. With your right you punch her face, pulling her into your fist at the same time. You let go of her arm and kick her away.

She staggers backward, wheezing. “Mierda.” She coughs, wiping blood off her lip. Glancing backwards she puts a hand towards the gathered crowd. “I’d – I’d consider backing up guys.”

_ Really? _

You frown under your helmet. Even now, Ortega? “Maybe you should think more about yourself.” You growl.

Ortega turns in time to catch your foot with her chest, sending her backwards into the retreating crowd. Wheezing, you let her get back to her feet. “Isn’t about what I can afford.” Her left arm now hanging limp at her side, pain stitched across her face. “Not that I expect you to get that.”

She’s slowing down. In pain. What is going on here? “You need to work harder if you’re going to stop me.” Come on, where’s that master fake-out? That sudden turn around?

She coughs, plasters that smug smile back on. “Come on, you haven’t told me why you’re doing this yet.”

You knock away her fist and she staggers back. Dives away from your kick. You could keep pressing but you let her get to her feet as you talk. “Do you actually care?”

“Well, don’t expect me to beg for it.”

Back in the day, this would be the moment where you swing in. Knock Ortega’s assailant flat. Plant just the right shot. Pull their attention away. Save the day. But… But you’re not coming today.

No one’s going to save Ortega from you.

She makes another go, and you kick her back, driving the air from her lungs as she falls to the ground.

Why…

If she’s not going to – but then why is she…

No. Stop. Please.

Stop.

Give up.

Run away.

Don’t throw away your life on something so stupid as you.

Ortega gets to her feet again. Blood is running freely own her face, cuts and gashes down her arms and legs. Knuckles bloody and bruised. That left arm still hanging limp and useless. And still she comes at you.

“Give up.” Your whisper and picked up and amplified by the vocal distortion. A prayer turned into cold command.

She coughs, shaking her head. “Afraid I can’t do that.”

You grab her fist as it comes towards you, electricity running harmlessly through the suit and into the ground. With a twist you turn her own momentum against her, swing her over your head to land hard on her back against the ground. “Stop it.”

“You first.”

“If you can’t win, then give up. You’re just – hurting yourself.”

Her eyebrows knit together, confused plain as she stares up at your empty form. “Do I know you?”

You put your foot down on her chest, pinning her to the ground. This is Ortega. This is your friend.

Your –

And she’s –

She’s  _ killing herself _ trying to fight you. Why? This is all wrong. Why is she on the ground and not you? You feel sick to your stomach. Why aren’t you dead yet? You’re a monster. That’s what heroes do. They kill the monster. The Theseus to your minotaur. So why can’t she just fucking….

“I… I…” Your voice trembles.


	33. name in blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last thread sharp enough to cut with. That’s the hope anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts, attempt
> 
> [ [Tanta Furia] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cWJy-PZrQI)

##  name in blood

The Rat-King pulls at your attention seconds before silver claws swipe the air where you had just been standing. You turn around, kicking Ortega out of the way as you put distance between you and an absolutely livid Lady Argent.

“You have  _ ruined _ my evening!” Argent holds her hands outstretched at her sides. Fingernails elongated into razor-sharp claws.

You stare at the woman. She’s still wearing a brilliant sequin dress. The whole world feels wrong. Some small part of you is scared shitless of how her eyes zero in on you, but it feels distant. Disconnected. “You’re late.”

“I was in a cab!” She huffs. “I was on my way home and then you had to…” She glances at Ortega’s limp form. Doesn’t take a second look at Herald’s you notice. “You’re going to pay for this.”

You jump backwards, out of her reach as she moves forward. “Join the club, Argent.”

She frowns, narrowing her eyes.

Maybe this is better. If Argent kills you. There’s justice in that. You’ve already thought about it before. It spares Ortega of any potential guilt. Okay then. You take a breath, bracing yourself.

Fine.

Let’s do this.

Trading blows with Argent is a completely different rhythm than Ortega. Where years of familiarity are lacking, you have your telepathy to guide your movement. To be where Argent isn’t, to twist her awareness to cut air instead of your armor.

Floodlights set her silver skin blazing in reflected light, like some kind of vengeful goddess.

Well.

Here you are.

Start passing judgement already.

“They were waiting. You know.” You slip the words in between blows, egging her ow. “For you.” You pull back, get some space as you watch her stance. “But you never came.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Argent rolls her eyes, unphased. “I thought we were fighting?”

How long has this night been gone on for? It feels like it’s lasted your entire life. Argent’s moves are quick, pressing every advantage she gets and yet not afraid to get flashy. Like she actually enjoys this whole mess.

Her foot catches a soft point between plates and you tumble backwards. Barely dive out of the way as claws scrape the armor of your suit, leaving a trio of deep gashes cutting into your arm. Superficial damage only but that spot under your arm is going to be a nasty bruise.

“What’s the problem?” She snarls in your face, “Suddenly you’re not going to fight back?”

Not fight back? It’s all you can do to keep up with her. You’re exhausted. Every muscle burning in protest as you force them to obey.

Argent pulls back a half step, wary. “Giving up then?”

She’s not going to kill you.

Goddamn it.

You don’t have it left in you to press an attack, to try and re-escalate the fight. If you give up, or collapse, or pass out… It’ll be straight back to the Farm. Fucking hell. How is it that the only fucking Ranger to  _ not _ dissapoint you today is fucking Wei Chen of all people?

If you can’t win, and you can’t lose, then all you can do now is run.

The Rat-King joins you as you wrap a note around Argent’s head. She snarls shaking her head as her vision distorts. Seeing double? You’re not sure how what you’re doing interacts with her weird sight. She slashes at empty air, far to your left, twisting around, trying to catch you. “What the hell is this?”

You fall back, palming another smoke grenade. Pull the pin and toss it into the crowd, followed by another at your feet. Cries of alarm echo out, followed by ragged gaps as people try to shield their eyes and cover their noses from the tear-gas like cloud.

Argent turns in a circle, trying to pick out which after-image of you is real, unphased by the gas. You do nothing to help her out on that. Use the smoke cover to get out of the light.

You don’t stop running until you’re safely in the sewer. Hold yourself up against the wall with one hand as you strain to catch your breath. You… you really did it? You bested the Rangers. You were ready to die tonight. Not just indifferent but – actively rooting for it and… you still won?

It doesn’t feel like victory.

So… now what?


	34. you’ll be the death of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are you doing this?
> 
> Are you stupid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emetophobia, suicidal thoughts
> 
> [ [Death of Me] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWHrxkY38fg&list=OLAK5uy_lot4o17b8nRuI3NdRWSVvZ2HvEVxRQYHA&index=34&t=0s)

##  you’ll be the death of me

It’s not quiet.

It’s the low rumble of a hospital in the middle of fielding a crisis. It doesn't quite feel real, knowing that you caused this. No suit to insulate you now, no puppet to keep the world at remove. Just some dirty clothes you hadn’t gotten around to washing yet between you and the rest of the world. Well, that and – you scratching at your arm. The bandage under your sleeve was a little too tight. But you can’t risk it. Not here. Got a little too… emotional.

Why are you even here? What is this supposed to accomplish?

The Memorial Hospital is the only real place in the city properly equipped for handling boosts and Mods like Ortega. If she’s anywhere, it’s here. Sure enough, there’s an orderly that remembers her face. From there is not hard to hop from mind to mind until you carve out the room number you need.

Private wing of the hospital. Can feel the tension well up from the floors below. How many people were at that Gala? How many are hurt?

How many died?

You feel dizzy. Have to pause and grab the wall while you retch. At least you have the foresight not to eat before fighting. This is… what you wanted, isn’t it?

It’s a relief when you finally find her room. Slide open the door and step inside, shutting it behind you. It dampens the sound a little, but the wooden door can only muffle so much. First thing you do is find the dial for the lights, turn it down to a softer twilight. It’s – It’s hard not to think about other rooms. Other… beds. A shudder runs down your spine as you step towards Ortega’s prone form. A series of machines and sensors. Is that an external battery? For recharge. Is she seriously planning to get back out there? Look – look at her…

You pull a chair up to her bed, collapse backwards into it.

How many other people did you put in beds like this?

Why is this bed the only one you care about?

Stitched wounds, bandaged scrapes… Did they pop her shoulder back in while she was awake or…? How could… how could you… This woman was your teammate. Once. You would have died for her. You were  _ planning _ to die for her. Is this going to keep happening? Is she going to keep throwing herself at you? Every step you that try to take?

How many more times is she going to be on this bed?

How many times have you been here? Sitting at her side, willing her to be okay? Willing her to wake up. Because she never gives up. She never knows when to quit. Because you always had to step in. Be the voice of reason. Pull her out of the fire.

How are you supposed to do that now? You are the fire.

Her hand hangs out over the edge of the bed, palm up. Little grounding wires stuck to the emitter to keep her from shorting out the equipment. Knuckles bruised, fingers loosely curled in.

Gently you take the hand in both of yours, her skin cool to the touch. Feel her calloused fingers between yours as you rub your thumb lightly over the skin. Something deep and horrible threatens to burst out of your throat. You sniffle, trying to blink away the pressure in your eyes.

Her hand twitches in yours and a groan comes from the bed as Ortega comes to.

“Hey.” You say.

“Hey.” She answers back, voice hoarse. She glances down at her hand and you quickly let go. Pull them in, hiding your hands under your armpits. Face warm.

“You look awful.”

She coughs, winces. “I feel worse.”

“What happened?”

“...Since you’re here, you must already know part of it.”

You shake your head. Have to stick to your cover story. “I saw the – the fight. On the news. Rushed over as – as soon as I could.”

“Mierda.” She winces. “They move fast.”

You bite your lip. “They… d–do have helicopters.”

Ortega laughs then groans, wincing in pain. “Don’t make me laugh. Please.”

“Ribs?”

“Cracked.”

“I…I’m sorry.” You force yourself to smile, try to ignore your stomach. “You’ll be lucky if that’s it.”

“I might have underestimated things.”

“No kidding. Guess th–that hasn’t changed.” You lick your lips trying to gather your thoughts. Why hadn’t she won? “Who… um. Who was it? I didn’t recognize that gettup. But… It’s not like I follow things anymore.”

“Someone new.” She winces as she tries to shift into a more operate position. “And I rushed the situation. Herald was already down… I couldn’t risk waiting for Argent.”

The words pass your lips unbidden. “Miss me then?”

Her eyes go wide as she stares at you, like you’ve just sucker punched her. Like she’s just looking at you for the first time. You can feel the heat on your face and you have to look away. “Madre de Dios, Ari, like you wouldn’t believe.”

“This new team isn’t… isn’t, um much of a team, is it?”

“Herald thinks he already knows everything and Argent…” Ortega sighs, a broken rasping sound. “She’s never played well with others. It’s not like when we had you.”

“Ortega, you know I was never a ranger.”

“You were always there when it counted.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Ortega groans, tries to shift herself a little more upright again so she’s at least eye-level with you. “You know what the hoops are for being a Ranger. We’ve got to take who we can get. I need to get back out there...”

What? No. Trust Ortega to refuse to admit she’s beaten. “You  _ need _ to – to rest.”

“I heal pretty fast.”

“Why are you always like this!?” You jerk upwards in your seat, hands in fists at your sides. “Look at you Ortega!”

“I have to.” She raises her voice to match yours, “I have to get who did this.”

“What is this? Revenge? The–the–the only thing y–you’re going to get is killed!”

She shakes her head, the stubborn idiot. She meets your eyes, staring you down. “I can’t let this go.”

“ _ Why? _ ”

She’s silent for a minute, then catches your eyes again. “There is… something that they wouldn’t have put on the news. About this new villain.”

You can’t make yourself look away even as your blood freezes in your veins. “What?”

“Whoever did this… has the ability to mess with people’s minds.”

“A… a telepath?”

“Probably. Or something similar.” She keeps your gaze, staring back.

“And – and you’re thinking…”

Ortega’s voice drops low, like she’s afraid of being overheard. “It’s… awfully odd, isn’t it? Angie has trouble with a mystery telepath and now this pendajo shows up.”

“I… I–I–I guess you’ll… know when you catch them. But it – it doesn’t have to be you, Ortega.”

“Believe me Ari… I really wish I could ignore what was going on right now.” She finally breaks eye contact. “I’m sorry things are so messed up right now.” She sighs, eyes flicker back towards you once before looking away. “I’ve got a lot to think about.”

You blink. “Think about?”

“Well, like…” She raises a hand, lets it fall limp to th bed. “I haven’t even said thank you yet.”

“For w–what?”

“For coming here. There’s no reason for you to.”

“What?” You look at her, wide-eyed. Guilty. But she can’t know that. You jab Ortega in the arm. “Of course I’d – I d–do care about you – you idiot.”

“Ow! Remember that I’m hospitalized?”

“Just– just look at you…” You push up from the seat, nervous energy making your hands shake. You grab the handle of the cart holding the machine Ortega’s hooked up to, suddenly not confident in your ability to walk.

You need to let go of this, let go of her. This isn’t going to stop happening. You’re burning your past tonight, and that past includes Julia. 

“Hey,” Ortega whispers, you don’t look at her. “Are you all right? I’m not dead– are you…?”

“I am not crying!” You raise your voice, need it to be true. Rub your eyes with one hand, blinking furiously. You slump back down in your chair.

Don’t look at her. Don’t look at what you did. “You’re an idiot.” You choke out. “You’re an–an–an idiot with no sense, and I don’t even have any idea why I–I–I should  _ ever _ care what happens to you, and yet here I am and – and–“ You pound your first into your lap, dig your nails into the fabric of your pants.

“And I’m grateful you are. I just didn’t…” Ortega’s voice is quiet, bordering on awe.

You don’t look. Can’t look. You want to die. You want her to reach out from that bed and pump you full of lightning until you’re a pile of ash on the floor, grab you by the neck and throw you through the window.

Something.

Anything.

Just touch you, please.

Your hand digs into your leg, into tracing patterns. You focus on that instead. Something familiar. Damn, why are you so warm? You wish they’d pump the A/C up, aren’t hospitals supposed to be freezing?

“I don’t – I don’t know what I’m – what I’m feeling–“ You blurt out. Try. Try to stop shaking. Get a grip, chickadee. “This isn’t the right time, and–“

“Okay, okay. I get it. I think.”

You force yourself to look up at her. What is that expression on her face? Is she dazed from the fight? Your heart breaks again seeing the stitches holding her lip together. You let out a long, shaking breath, rub your eyes again. Try to smile, it feels hollow. “I’m glad one of us does. I don’t get anything anymore.”

“We’ll… talk about this later?” She looks at you, searching. Lost? You can only guess. Can only ever guess. “When things are less messed up?”

You cover your face in your hands. “F–f–fucking hell. How did my life get this complicated.”

“Not all complications are bad.”

You give her a look. What the hell does she know? Nothing. She has no goddamn fucking idea. 

Ortega winces, hissing in pain as she shifts on the bed again. “Speaking of which, I need to check in on someone.”

You blink. Alarmed. “Are you fucking nuts, Ortega? Look at yourself.”

“I know but…” She reaches with one arm, pulling off senses and wires. “I have to.”

“ _ Why _ .”

She glances over at you, worried eyes finding your own. “I… had a date to the Gala. I need to make sure she’s okay. There was an explosion… she got knocked out and…”

Oh.

Oh fucking hell.

“Can you even get out of that bed on your own?”

“Well… it wouldn’t be on my own, if you helped me.” She rattles her arm, trialling cables. “And I know you can disconnect me.”

“Alright, fine. Hold still y–you.” You sigh, trying to wash out your internal panic with tired concern. “Swear to god, if I go grey early it’s all y–y–your fucking fault.”

“Happy to take the blame.”

Ortega has to lean on your shoulder all the way down the hallway. You wrap a song around the both of you, willing no one to take an interest. Not a hard ask. Anyone standing upright is clearly not a critical priority right now.

Once your in the elevator you hit the button Ortega tells you to, and then let her grab the railing. You settle in opposite of her, eager to put some space between you. Your face feels warm, breath a little too light. Are you panicking? Please don’t be panicking right now.

Ortega reaches out to the elevator pad and pushes the STOP button. The two of you jostle as it comes to a sudden halt.

You swallow a lump in your throat, “W–what are you doing…?”

“Getting us some time to talk. There’s something I need to find out.”

You look away from her, shrink back against the wall opposite from Ortega. “Then… talk.”

“I just… wanted to say thank you, I suppose.” From the corner of your eye you can see Ortega is also avoiding looking directly at you. “I didn’t expect this.”

You relax a little. “Nobody ever, um, ever expects to – to be beaten up,” you whisper. Ortega’s just… being thankful.

You can handle that.

“No, I meant you being here.” You manage to look up just in time to see her staring at you, full-focused.

Oh.

You can’t handle that.

“We – We’ve been over this.” You protest.

Don’t think about what’s happening. Don’t think about how she’s looking at you. Don’t think about how you just put her in a hospital bed. Don’t think about how you kissed her while wearing a woman’s skin.

“This was a one-time thing,” you voice is low, barely even a whisper. “This… this isn’t my life anymore.” Why is is always so warm in these buildings?

It’s not fair, frankly. You’re a monster now. You shouldn’t have to keep hiding what you want from everyone, even yourself. You absolutely shouldn’t be thinking about that moment in the Gala where Ortega wrapped her arms around Jane.

Why are you jealous of her? She’s you.

Isn’t she?

Before you realize what you’re doing, you step forward, like Jane wanted to. It doesn’t feel real. Like you’re back in the middle of a life-or-death fight, where the seconds stretch out around you in slow motion. You can see yourself in the elevator mirror, grabbing Ortega by the shoulders. She’s staring at you, a look of dawning surprise.

She’s taller than you, but not by much, you just have to tilt your head up, you’re not in heels this time so you have to lift up ever-so-slightly, and you can press your lips against hers. Her soft skin is intercut with raw stitching and scabbing blood. Kissing her is strange.

You’ve never done this before–

–except that yes you have literally just done this.

Sort of.

As a – as a different woman.

That kiss had been intense, Ortega took the lead, with her arms wrapping around Jane, pulling her close. Jane reaching back, tossing her purse to the ground so she could run her hands through Ortega’s hair, draw circles on her back.

Kissing Ortega now, as Ariadne Becker, it’s the same face Jane touched alright. But marred now, by your own handiwork. You aren’t Jane. That’s inescapable. The two of you might seem alike at a passing glance, similar hair, similar eye color. But it doesn’t hold up under close inspection. You have thinner, extremely chapped lips, for one, you haven’t bothered to comb your hair in weeks – a stray strand gets stuck between you two as you kiss. Your nose sticks out more so you have to tilt your head to maneuver around Ortega’s. Jane is real in ways you never can be. Everything’s just off enough to emphasize the alien inside the familiarity.

Ortega doesn’t quite kiss you back this time around; passively accepting your touch with a stunned, breathy awe.

Too soon you have to pull back. There’s a taste of copper lingering on your tongue. Your heart is pounding, your adrenaline crash being flushed away with a fresh shot.

“I thought I was…” Ortega licks her lips, expression unreadable, “…imagining things.”

You let go of her shoulders, feeling a strange mix of glowing calm contrasting against your heart trying to escape your ribcage. You can feel the smile threatening to escape. “Should... Should I w–worry about you having a concussion too?”

“Very funny.”

“It’s…” You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Ah – call it trying – trying out a missed opportunity.”

You actually…

You did, not Jane.

You touched someone.

Willingly. Without prompting.

Moreover, you touched her.

And you don’t want to throw up.

“It’s not that I’m complaining but…” Ortega looks completely lost at sea. “I mean, I…”

You can feel your brief calm dissolving already. You’re trapped in a box with no outlet other than Ortega. You grab your arms, hugging yourself to try and keep from shaking again. You feel warm, hot like a fire, and Ortega looks an awful lot like tinder right now.

“Ari… what does this mean?”

“We’ll…” You take a breath. “We’ll talk about it later.” You reach out and slam a button on the panel, get the elevator moving again.

Ortega touches her lips, “Later? What are you talking about? Why not now?”

You don’t respond. You don’t have an answer that even to you doesn't sound queen supreme of fucked up. You don’t meet Ortega’s gaze as the increasingly awkward seconds drag by until the elevator chimes and the door slides open. “Because this is my stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [Jamais Vu] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449946/chapters/46293415)


	35. i'm already dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the Gala debut of her new villain persona, Ariadne Becker has Some Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts
> 
> [ [Already Dead] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9lrcoJloRI)

##  i’m already dead

Chen stands over you, crossing his arms. “I don't think anyone actually minded your singing, you know.” he shrugs, “it’s not like you were any good at hiding it anyway.” 

an added threat as red water seeps out around you the ambulance rolling over your body with a thunk! thunk! and men in white and black pour out over you. their faces covered in static – surgical knives and bonesaws at the ready

and the hands that hold you down

down

down

down

down

no words, just red water running down your front from the font of your mouth, nose, eyes. felt not seen, you’re there again, and she stares you down with your eyes or are your eyes hers? you can’t move from the table she’s strapped to can’t move can’t watch, just know, feel. inquisitive little metal blades parting layers like origami flowers blossoming.

_ she whispered ‘welcome home’, the pinch of metal slipping into your neck, just a little sting _

things are supposed to end when they end. end process, end program, control alt delete, shut down just–

_ wet the system, soak in like red water, filling out the wounds, expanding lines of orange distorting the tattoos on your chest – the room is gone, the men are gone, she’s gone, was she ever here? but the argument was so convincing, the promise of green, verdant freedom, her words twisted like red lines wrapped around your arms _

“What are you doing?” Julia puts a hand on your shoulder and you flinch, pull away.

“What does it look like?” Deflection, find where you stand first.

“You’re really leaning on that railing there, Ari.”

“I am?” You pull back, don’t let go. Don’t let go. If you don’t acknowledge the red, it can’t hurt you. “S-sorry. Got lost in thought. How was the talk with your boyfriend?”

“Ugh, not so much 'boyfriend' anymore.”

“You don’t want to work things out?”

“He wanted me to pull strings to put him on the team to make up for it.”

“Oh. Yikes.” You lean forward again. “Sorry I wrecked thi–“ The metal gives out and this time around the wheel julia ortega does not catch you

_ you’re falling, _

_ falling, _

_ glass shards scratching _

_ lines in your mask _

greenery blossoming in the cement below you, the earth reaches up, because you just can’t resist one last arrogance: pretending the earth would see you as one of her own. a joke of self delusion – there’s only delusion coming out of that pool –waxing crescent– red water, filling up your mouth, lungs

“Fffff-aaugh!” You scream as you leap to your feet, heart pumping; adrenaline running. Where’s the danger? Who’s the enemy? Where’s your gun?

“Woah, hey, Sidestep, are you okay?” Anathema’s hands are raised, eyebrows up in worry. Sergeant Steel stands in the door frame, arms crossed.

You take a breath. Calm down. Stay in control, stay focused. “I’m, uh, I’m okay. Sorry. Sorry…”

Steel speaks first, “Were you here all night?”

“I must have just, um, fallen asleep after th-that fight… yesterday?” You raise your voice in a question mark. Did you really sleep here all night? Dangerous. "Give me a break Steel.”

“I am beginning to think you just live here now.”

“I have my own place, thank you very much!”

“Where would that be?”

“None of your damn business-“

“Woah, hey, hey,” Anathema raises up her hands, stepping between the two of you. “Relax, we’re all on the same side here.”

“Are we?”

“You had no right being here unsupervised.”

Anathema grimaces, “Steel, relax. We’ll sort this all out when Charge gets in, okay?”

“We’ll see.” You and Steel answer together.

“What are you even doing here anyway, Themmy?” You ask, tugging on your hair, when did it get so long? There hasn’t been time yet.

“What are you talking about?” She turns to you, the burns on her face growing of their own accord.

“Didn’t you die?”

“Haha, why? Did you?”

Her eyes are white -no pupils- as she reaches a hand for you, dripping flashes of green and you recoil, trip backwards through the conference room glass. your head smashes open against asphalt

You lay there on the floor, legs still hanging on the bed and feel the pain rebound around the back of your head. Leave your eyes closed and just focus on the feeling of air in your lungs. The ever-present itch of too dry skin, the slight ache of your breasts, the twinge in your leg. The thin bedsheet still tangled in between your legs. Your can feel how your nightshirt has ridden up, exposing your torso. It’s enough to get your heart running but you don’t move to fix it just yet.

Are you awake this time? Is this going to be another fake out? What’s memory and what’s dream? You let the static buzz of self-occupied minds wash over you with only token resistance, take that as your answer. You never have telepathy in your dreams, can’t read your own mind after all.

You exhale the air out of your lungs, a sustained push for as long as you can bear to keep it up.

God, you’re so tired.

“Oh.” You say, your voice flat. “I get it.” You step back, away from an empty mirror.

And you’re awake again, your back stiff as you climb back into your chair, temporarily blinded by the pastel colors of your monitor’s screensaver. You can feel every bruise, every pulled muscle in your body. They’re all screaming at once like unruly children. The adrenaline from last night is gone and now… and now… what, exactly?

What happens when you survive a sucide attempt?

You shift your head, cheek pressed against the desk and wiggle the mouse to wake your computer up.

You’re not sure where it started, but at some point in the stream of articles and social media hot takes, your new persona had been christened ‘Puppetmaster.’ You blow a stream of tired air from your lungs as you skim over one such article. Maybe it was a mistake not to come up with your own name?

There’s something about this one that leaves a foul taste in your mouth. Your identity is supposed to be secret and this feels too on the nose for Ariadne Becker, the retired psychic vigilante. After the conversation with Ortega in the hospital it makes you even more anxious. How much do they know? What do they suspect?

Sure, you wish you were dead but… you can’t afford to have the Directive sent after you. Not yet. You aren’t ready.

A picture of the damage to the museum is the newest item on your newsfeed. The camera has focused in on Sidestep’s dummy head resting upside down among shattered glass and scattered plastic arms and legs. Underneath someone has commented ‘Mood.’

You roll your eyes and spin the scroll wheel, scanning through more news reports of the damage from last night. Why are you reading these articles? Each one feels like a little cut, a little sting of pain, reading out the damage totals, the people hurt.

It’s nothing you don’t already know at this point. Herald and Ortega hospitalized, Argent won’t talk to the press and Steel spent the whole night combing the city for Puppetmaster.

For you, you remind yourself. 

You stop your scrolling through news feeds to stare at a photograph of you standing over a beaten Ortega. This one is new. It’s an overhead shot from a helicopter. The black paint of your suit creates an eerie effect, as if the void itself is poised to bring its foot down on the hero of Los Diablos.

Thinking about Ortega is dangerous, and so of course you can’t stop doing it now.

What possessed you to go see her afterwards? Why in hell is it that the first thing you do after your big debut humiliating the Rangers and destroying the city’s dumb hollow memorial to fartsniffers is to immediately risk throwing everything all away? Stupid, stupid.

She looked so frail in that hospital bed.

Why didn’t Ortega stop you? You clench your fist as you stare at Ortega’s picture on the screen. Why did she have to be so selfish as to pull Ariadne back out of the grave if she wasn’t going to have the wherewithal to put something else there in its place?

Why can’t you let her go?

They’re all just obstacles or tools or pawns in your way while you King Lear your vengeful ghost ass through California.

Anything between you should have died seven years ago with Sidestep and Anathema, and you absolutely can not afford to still be carrying a torch for this idiot, smug, charming, beautiful woman who absolutely refuses to stop being nice at you even from the very hospital bed you put her in.

And – you cover your face with your hands, groaning – why in god’s sake did you fucking kiss her before running away like a coward? You’ll never be rid of her now.

She should, no, she  _ needs _ to retire before she gets herself killed. Before you-

Before Puppetmaster kills her.

You close out the web browser, you don’t want to look at the news any more. You just want to lay there in the dark and not think about anything.

But at some point even the blinds can’t keep the sun out. You have to get up. You have to brush your teeth, you have to comb your hair, you have to shave your face and you have to cover it up. You have to get dressed. You have to go outside. You have to walk through a swarm of buzzing self-absorbed minds. You have to get breakfast. Life doesn’t stop just because you stepped over the edge.

There’s so much farther you still have to fall, so many bastards to take with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [just a little sting] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897162)
> 
> [ [nothing stops] ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19004725)


	36. you gotta let me go down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You need to talk to somebody, anybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal thoughts
> 
> [ [Timefighter] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FdCVwE8tpLs)

#  Coda:

##  you gotta let me go down

Shaking hands dial the number.

“Jane? Too what do I owe the pleasure, mon amie?”

“Doctor?” Jane’s voice is weak, uneven.

“Jane?” Concern colors the tinny voice on the other end of the line. “Are you okay?”

“I – I’m sorry. Can we talk? In person?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“It’s… It’s okay. I understand if…”

“No, no it’s fine, Jane. I am at my lab right now. Let me give you directions.”

–––

Jane holds herself close as she steps through sliding doors, trying to make herself look smaller. As soon as she steps into the central lab, all shiny chrome and mysterious equipment a voice calls out. “Mon amie, I trust you found your way here without trouble?”

Mortum steps out from behind a robot arm with a tiny grasping hand, gently pushing it back and out of the way. Her expression knitted with concern as she takes Jane’s hand. Leads her through the lab to a pair of couches near a cooler and TV screen. “Jane, you look terrible, what happened?”

Jane flinches from the contact. Fingers brushing tender bruises under the long-sleeved cardigan. She follows Mortum favoring her left ankle, bandages wrapped tight around it.

Mortum sits her down on the couch, taking her hands in her own. “Jane, speak to me.”

“Everything… went exactly to plan. It all… worked. Even better than expected.”

“Look at you Jane. You look like you’ve been trampled. What happened?”

“I…” The words catch in your throat. You can’t tell her the truth. She’s all you’ve got left. “I… planted the bombs. Just as planned but… but… I got knocked out.” She shudders. “Woke up like this. Fuck… Mortum. This – this is my fault. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t be here, I…”

“Stop.” Dr. Mortum’s voice is stern.. “This is  _ not _ your fault.” She sighs, looks at Jane with a sorrowful expression. “I knew this employer of yours could not be trusted. But I had no idea he would… to his own…” Her face grows dark. “The man has no decency.” She holds Jane by the shoulders, “Your job is done. You don’t need to work with him ever again, you hear me?”

Words pile up in Jane’s throat faster than she can speak. She really has no idea. This poor stupid genius doesn’t suspect anything. You really are the worst.

“I… I’m sorry I…”

Why are you here?

Why are you alive?

Ortega is in a relationship with Jane. God – the fear on her face, the way she looked at Jane as she woke up. The relief she had. You were an idiot. Jane can have Ortega. Not you. Not your body. Rotten and twisted, branded and ruined. Scared and broken.

Jane sobs, gasps for air. Wordlessly she collapses into Mortum’s arms, pressing her face into the doctor’s shoulder, weeping. Stiff arms loosen, then wrap around Jane, pulling her close, a hand rubbing her back.

A kindness you don’t deserve.

You are a hollow empty thing. It’s only luck no one died in this attack. There’s no guarantee that luck will hold for the next.

And there will be a next.

And a next.

And a next.

Until someone finally puts you down like the sick animal you are.


End file.
